


one hand on my .45 (the other ‘round my baby’s waist)

by piagnucolare



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Eventual Smut, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, based off a luc besson film. ugh, neighbors to roommates to teacher/student to lovers, oh my god they were neighbors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:54:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24367639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piagnucolare/pseuds/piagnucolare
Summary: Everything about this spells trouble in big red letters. Quentin should just close his door and go to sleep. It’s not his problem.Peter’snot his problem.Or, hewasn’this problem.But he is now, isn’t he?(In which Quentin is a hitman and Peter is his neighbor who gets caught in the crossfire.)
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 41
Kudos: 148





	1. what’s happening out there?

**Author's Note:**

> taking a short break from all the nsfw stuff to write a hitman/apprentice au! wow
> 
> in theory. this will become nsfw. if i keep writing it.
> 
> thanks for joining me on my hell ride
> 
> title from a mother mother tune

It’s strange, how monotonous Quentin’s life is, considering the career path he’d chosen for himself. Nothing new ever happens. It’s the same boring old routine as always.

Get a mark from Tony. Research said mark. Kill said mark. Rinse and repeat.

When he’d become involved in the world of underground crime he’d expected more... pizzazz. Something like the movies, all guts and glory— shootouts in the streets, high-speed car chases, corpses in concrete shoes. A decapitated horse head in his bed, maybe.

That could just be the theatre kid in him though, hoping for drama despite the setbacks it’d bring.

Maybe it’s just a result of having watched too many violent movies growing up. His foster mothers always tried to tell him they would rot his brain, but the bond between Quentin Beck and Quentin Tarantino held fast— matriarchal disapproval or not. They did share a name after all.

Back then, he still thought that he would grow up to direct movies, or work as a stuntman. He definitely didn’t expect his life to _become_ a Tarantino flick. Not an interesting one like _Pulp Fiction_ , though. More of a _Hateful Eight_ kind of deal. Long, drawn out— at times tear-your-hair-out kind of _boring_ — with bouts of gratuitous violence sprinkled in to keep him interested long enough to stop him from switching over to something more appropriate.

Yeah. Interesting moments are few and far between when you kill people for a living. Nothing really keeps him on his toes— once you’ve shot one mobster, you’ve shot ‘em all. That first-time thrill is gone.

“Please,” the man begs, cowering on the floor and clasping his hands together in some shitty imitation of a prayer. There’s a golden cross hanging from a chain around his neck— he’s the religious type. If he’s looking for a savior, Quentin’s the wrong guy. “I can give you money! I can pay you double whatever your employer’s payin’!”

The man is clearly wealthy— donning a suit jacket that could arguably cover more than a year’s worth of rent for Quentin’s subpar apartment in Queens. He’s nothing special though, as far as Quentin can tell. Too much grease in his dark hair, too much gold on his wrists. Just some low-rung mafioso who flaunts his cash and cars to anyone stupid enough to pay attention. 

“I don’t know,” he hums, his pistol pointed at the man’s forehead. “How much are you worth?”

“My finance guy says my net worth’s in the millions! I could— I could _triple_ whatever you’re making, just put the gun down!”

It’s an enticing offer, in theory. But, if Quentin were in it for the money, he would’ve quit a long time ago.

Maybe the best part about the job— the part that keeps him coming back for more— isn’t actually the violence. It’s this, toying with people, dangling that little chance of freedom right in front of their faces. Drawing it out, giving them hope.

And then taking it all away.

“Wrong answer,” he says, cocking the gun and giving him his best shit-eating grin. “You’re worth... a dollar seventy-five, give or take. At least, that’s how much the bullet’s worth— how much it’ll cost me to kill you.”

The man barely registers the comment, his face contorting in anger, before Quentin pulls the trigger. The silencer on the end of his pistol reduces the sound of the gun to a dull _ping_.

The man gapes at him for a beat, before slumping onto the carpet, dead.

Talk about anti-climatic. 

Quentin holsters his gun under his jacket, before examining the scene. The swanky penthouse is relatively the same as it was when he’d snuck into it. Ornate furniture, expensive vases— all untouched. The only notable difference is the pool of blood forming under the mafioso’s head, and even that would come out with a good steam clean.

There wasn’t much of a struggle, considering the fact that the man’s security detail was comprised of a whopping total of two guys. Two guys who didn’t even see him coming, too busy arguing to notice that Quentin was standing right behind them.

All in all, it only took four bullets to get rid of all three of them. Just a few dollars out of the couple thousand he’ll collect from Tony’s later.

Things get a bit routine, sure, but it’s his life. He feels just as comfortable in the familiarity as he does trapped. He knows how to do his job like the back of his hand, knows how to clean up all the scum that his employers want gone. It’s not a glamorous life, and it’s not what he expected from this line of work, but at least there are no unfortunate surprises.

—

Quentin’s sitting at his kitchen table, mindlessly flipping through a magazine, when he hears the gunshots. Granted, it’s not too uncommon for chaos to break out on the streets of New York, especially at night, but it still has him reaching for his gun. There’s a loud crash in the hallway, and he’s out of his seat in an instant.

Things are crazy in New York City, but not in his apartment building. That’s why he likes it so much— it’s quaint and quiet, despite being in a near-constant state of disrepair. It’s a nice change of pace, coming home from work to his one bedroom apartment, away from the action. 

It’s just a nice place, simple as that. Even his neighbors are nice— or at least, they seem pretty nice when he talks to them. One of them, May Parker from a few doors down, even brings leftovers from her family dinners. 

“I know you work odd hours,” she’d said just the other night, a hesitant smile on her face. “So I thought you might like a home-cooked meal every now and then.” He just remembers being stunned by her smile— stunned by the fact that she was smiling at _him_. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had done that.

Needless to say, she doesn’t seem like the type to be shooting at the walls and smashing glass at 1:43 AM. Which means something’s wrong. Something’s really, really wrong.

Quentin slowly steps towards his door, careful not to stand in front of it, in case some stray bullets come whizzing through the wood. Things are quieter now, but if anything, that just puts him more on edge.

When he chances a look through the peephole, he knows something dangerous is happening a few doors down. There are two burly men, both holding considerably large guns— both standing guard by the door of an apartment. The door that, by the look of it, has been blown wide open. Shotgun shell to the lock, maybe. 

Quentin stops looking through the peephole. They must mean business. _Serious_ business. 

But, serious or not, it’s not _his_ business. Besides, the cops are probably already on their way. Maybe.

Maybe not.

Either way, he doesn’t feel like dealing with the mess a few doors down. It doesn’t seem like it’ll lead to anything good. Quentin pulls away from the door.

Then he nearly has a heart attack when someone knocks right where his head had been a few seconds before— short and urgent raps that convey _emergency_.

He clutches his gun tighter, angling it towards where he assumes the stranger’s chest would be, before looking through the peephole again. Probably not one of the meatheads in the hallway, but still. Better safe than sorry.

Oh. That’s not who he expected to see. He lowers his gun.

Peter Parker, the son— or maybe the nephew?— of the aforementioned neighbor stands in the hallway, his face pale and frightened. “Mr. Beck? Are you home?” His voice sounds as unsteady as he looks. 

Quentin contemplates whether or not he should open the door. On the one hand, he’d be inviting trouble not only into his apartment, but his life in general. As sweet as Peter seemed when they’d interacted in the hallway, it still doesn’t seem worth it, sticking his neck out for him.

At the same time, he’d have to be a pretty heartless bastard to leave the kid standing out there while an apartment gets robbed. While tenants get murdered, even.

Peter knocks again, louder this time. He’s starting to get more anxious, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, the color gone from his face. Another bout of knocking. Probably drawing unwanted attention to Quentin’s apartment. 

He’s turning the lock before he even registers what he’s doing. 

The door’s barely open, just enough for him to stick his face through, but Peter seems to calm down a bit. “Peter, hey. It’s pretty late. Do you need something?”

Peter bites at his lip, glancing behind him for a moment before turning back to Quentin. “Uh, yeah, actually. Can I— can I come in, please?”

Quentin wasn’t exactly expecting that. It throws him for a loop. “Uh, it’s almost two in the morning,” he says, a bit dismissively, in an attempt to dissuade him from insisting. “I’m not in the mood for guests right now.” It’s supposed to be a joke, kind of, but it sounds unexpectedly harsh. Peter might even flinch at his response. Wrong move.

Quentin switches his tone to something more along the lines of _concerned_. It’d be best to let him down gently, maybe, so he doesn’t make a scene and draw even more attention to them. “I’m sure your aunt and uncle are worried about you, kid.”

Apparently, letting him down gently turns out to be the worst thing he can do. Peter’s eyes start watering, his lower lip wobbling with the promise of sobs. _Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit._ He’s definitely going to hell for making Peter cry. 

Or, well, that’s another thing added to the list of reasons why he’s going to hell. Killing people is probably way more of an issue than making Peter cry. But right now, it feels like a crime deserving eternal punishment.

“Please,” he whispers, fear creeping into his voice. “I don’t know where else to go.” 

He can connect the dots pretty easily. The apartment. The fear in Peter’s voice. 

It’s not just fear. It’s desperation.

Everything in him is telling him to say no. Quentin could probably count the number of times that he and Peter have spoken on one hand. They don’t know each other at all. They’re just neighbors, plain and simple. “Look, kid—“

His train of thought gets interrupted by the creak of the door opening down the hall. A third man, dressed in a leather jacket, steps out of the apartment— steps out of _Peter’s_ apartment. He tucks his gun into the back of his pants. Quentin barely even realizes how strange that is until he realizes that he’s not working. This is an apartment building, not the back of a seedy club.

The man’s demeanor just screams _threat_. The kind of threat that he doesn’t feel like provoking right now. He and his guard dogs are already looking right at them— not maliciously, but definitely suspiciously.

Peter flinches at the sound of the door slamming behind the man— the door to _his_ apartment. His eyes are squeezed shut, a tear sliding down his cheek. “Please,” he says again, like the world’s saddest broken record.

Everything about this spells trouble in big red letters. Quentin should just close his door and go to sleep. It’s not his problem. _Peter’s_ not his problem.

Or, he _wasn’t_ his problem.

But he is now, isn’t he?

Jesus fucking Christ, he’s going to regret this.

“Alright, fine,” he huffs, stepping aside to open the door. “Come in.”

He expects some sort of gratefulness from Peter, a hushed _thank you_ , maybe. Not a crushing full-body hug. Peter latches onto him like a limpet, squeezing the air out of his lungs. “Thank you,” he breathes into Quentin’s turtleneck, his curls tickling under his chin.

The door’s still open. The man shoots them another suspicious look, narrowing his eyes. Quentin just waves awkwardly, before placing his hands on Peter’s slim shoulders. He doesn’t push him away, but the message is clear. Peter lets go of his waist, looking sheepish. His face is a lovely shade of pink— if the circumstances were less tense, Quentin might have teased him about it.

“Sorry,” Peter says. Quentin gets the feeling he’s not just talking about the hug.

“It’s, uh— I just have to close the door.” 

The _it’s okay_ that almost found its way into that sentence is somewhat alarming. None of this is okay, not really. But Peter looks like he’s feeling less frightened, so maybe it’s the right thing to do. He’ll deal with the consequences later.

Quentin turns the lock on the door and slides the bolt in place, double-checking that it’ll hold, before turning to face the stranger in his living room. He never has guests. Peter’s probably one of the first people to come into his apartment. Maybe the first person, period. “So,” he says, “I think you owe me an explanation.”

Peter bites his lip, flicking his eyes toward the door behind Quentin. “I— my— uh,” he stammers, voice cracking. And shit, they’ve been talking for less than ten minutes and he’s made the kid cry again. “My aunt and uncle are, um. They’re dead. I think. I’m pretty sure.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He thinks about the woman who went out of her way to say hello to him in the hallway, who brought him leftovers when he’d work late hours. _Dead._ He’s not very emotional, not really, but it still makes his chest ache, thinking of Peter’s loss. “I’m sorry,” he says lamely. He steps closer— considers putting a hand on Peter’s slumped shoulders. Doesn’t.

Peter shakes his head. “Not your fault. My uncle was— he used to be involved with some really, really bad people. I guess they just, caught up with him.”

Quentin turns toward the door. “Do you think you could recognize the guys that did it?” He’s willing to bet every single cent he’s ever earned that the men in the hallway are responsible for killing Peter’s family. They’re not cops, that’s for sure.

“I don’t know,” Peter says, sniffling. “I was on my way up, and I just saw all the blood— I didn’t look long enough to see their faces. I’m sorry.”

“God, kid. Don’t apologize so much.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Quentin sighs, running a hand through his hair. Debates what to do next. Someone’s probably called the police by now. Knowing the cops, though, they won’t be any help. Just mark it down as another homicide in Queens and move on.

Maybe Quentin’ll look into it himself. Later, when he doesn’t have to worry about putting Peter in danger.

Right now, the best he can do is offer him a place to sleep. “You can stay the night, if you want.”

Peter’s eyes widen. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. It’s not like you’ve got anywhere else to go, right?”

And that’s that.

He puts Peter in his bedroom. Peter insists on sleeping on the couch, but Quentin uses his host-superiority to get him to drop it. He claims that the couch is uncomfortable, too hard to sleep on, but that’s only part of the truth. The living room is too close to the door— if anyone were to break in, they’d shoot him first. 

“Look kid, if you’re staying here, you’re staying in my room.”

“Where will you sleep?” 

It’s not a ‘no’, so he takes it as a victory. He tilts his head, giving Peter a winning grin. “I’m a night owl— I’ll probably be up anyway.”

So that’s how he ends up sitting in the dark, facing the door, his gun in hand. It’s not the first time he’s done this. And, realistically, it probably won’t be the last, if he makes it through the night.

Something tells him that the men are gone, at least for now. A little reassurance in the middle of one of the strangest nights of his life. He’s a hitman turned temporary babysitter. At least until Peter finds somewhere to go. 

Hopefully, those guys will leave him alone. Whoever sent them probably wasn’t particularly interested in killing a scrawny teenager.

If Peter knows who they are, though— if he could pick them out of a lineup— then they’ve got a motive. They’ll be back soon enough.

Quentin’s hand clenches around the gun.

—

He must doze off a little, because when he comes to, the clock reads 4:36. The apartment is still, everything dark and quiet. Even the building seems oddly devoid of noise. The police still haven’t come to the crime scene, he guesses. 

“Mr. Beck?”

Quentin nearly has a heart attack for the second time tonight. Peter’s looming in the doorway, looking rumpled in his hoodie and jeans. It’s dark, but he can still see the way the streetlights outside his window reflect off of the fresh tear tracks on the kid’s cheeks, his watery eyes. He doesn’t even realize he’s pointing his gun at him. He quickly tucks it away, hoping Peter couldn’t see it in the dark. “Yeah?”

“I can’t sleep.”

That’s not exactly a surprise. He did just narrowly avoid being murdered. Hell, his aunt and uncle _were_ murdered. That’d put anybody on edge.

“What’s wrong? Bed not soft enough for you?” Quentin jokes. Even if he knows what’s wrong, he’s not exactly looking forward to opening that can of worms. He’s a temporary babysitter, maybe, but not a temporary therapist.

Luckily, Peter doesn’t start talking about his murdered family. “Nightmares, kind of. I was just wondering if I could sleep out here, instead.” 

“I don’t really see how that’d help you.” _You’re probably in more danger in the living room than in the bedroom,_ he wants to say, but he doesn’t. It wouldn’t help him feel better— might even make him feel worse.

Peter looks down at his feet. “I mean, you’re out here. I just— I just think I’d feel better if I wasn’t alone.” He creeps closer. “I could sleep on the couch.”

Again with the goddamn couch. Quentin frowns. “Peter, I already told you— no couch.”

“Then, can you stay with me in your room? I know it’s kind of weird, but I don’t know. I think it’d help.”

It’s not a good idea, but it’s not a bad one either. If someone does break in, they’ll have to wander around the apartment to find them. It’ll buy them some time to go out the fire escape. 

Or, more accurately, buy Peter some time. Quentin’s never run away from a fight, not really. He’d rather die with his pride intact than live as a coward.

He gets up from his seat with a grunt, slipping the gun into the back of his pants. “Fine— just for tonight.”

And it is just for tonight, isn’t it? Peter can’t stay here forever— he probably has school, some sort of responsibility that’ll have him back on his feet in no time. Or out of Quentin’s apartment, at least. And if he doesn’t have anywhere to go or anything to do, then he’ll just have to leave him with the cops. As useless as they are, Peter would probably be infinitely safer with them than with Quentin.

He can’t protect him from whatever’s lurking in the shadows, not without putting him in danger. There’s probably a lot of people out there who would do anything to get the upper hand on Quentin. The last thing he needs is someone to get attached to, someone to worry about. That vulnerability— that _weakness_ — could be a death sentence.

Peter curls up under his sheets, looking impossibly small on the double bed. “Do you have enough room?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. You’re not as big as you think you are.”

Peter huffs at that— not exactly a laugh, but still an amused sound. Quentin places his gun on the nightstand, careful to not let it clatter against the wood. He doesn’t think Peter would find it as reassuring as he does.

There’s no good way for him to situate himself on the bed, so he settles for leaning against the headboard, sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him. Peter’s got his back turned to him when he gets on the bed, but he shuffles around to face him.

“Mr. Beck?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“For what? Letting you sleep on my memory foam mattress?”

Peter’s eyes flutter shut. He hums, soft and low. If he’s not already asleep, he’s on his way there.

“For everything,” he murmurs. “For saving my life.”

Hopefully Peter doesn’t hear the way Quentin’s breath sticks in his throat. “Uh, bit dramatic, but, yeah. No problem.”

Quentin sits there, deathly still, until he hears Peter snoring softly. He lets out a breath that he hadn’t even realized he was holding, as soon as he hears Peter’s breathing even out. Even with the soft sounds of the kid sleeping next to him, his ears are ringing.

_Thanks. For everything. For saving my life._

He repeats the words in his head until they’re nothing but a mess of syllables. Quentin had been dismissive, calling him dramatic, but. Maybe he really had saved Peter’s life.

What a twist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes this is an au based off of the movie the professional. no i don’t have morals. yes i have many wips. yes i ignored those to write this. no peter is not ridiculously young in this. yes his age is ambiguously teenager-y.
> 
> pls come yell at me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/piagnucolares)


	2. quentin, the screenwriter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Who would do something like that? Just _murdering_ innocent people?”
> 
> Who _would_ do something like that? Quentin swallows thickly, pulling his hand away from Peter like he’s been burned. He doesn’t kill innocent people, but he doubts that it matters to Peter. Doubts that it matters in the eyes of someone so genuinely _good_. “I don’t know,” he says again, because he doesn’t know what else he can say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally...... another chapter
> 
> thank you all for your patience and kudos, i offer you these words

Quentin wakes up under his covers, in an empty bed. It’s nothing new— he’s never really got any company, romantic or otherwise, so he’s used to spending his mornings alone, doing things at his own pace. The only strange thing is the fact that he slept so long, the sun already bright and shining through the slats in his blinds. Whatever. It’s not like he has a set schedule as a freelance murderer.

It’s only after he’s rolled over and checked the clock on his nightstand, noticing the loaded gun beside it, that he remembers his unexpected guest.

His unexpected guest, who is no longer in his room.

He tumbles out of bed, uncharacteristically clumsy for someone who spends most of his life being light on his feet, but he’ll blame it on the fact that he slept through the whole night. He doesn’t usually sleep so much, so he’s just a bit disoriented, limbs still relaxed from having just woken up. As if being disoriented wasn’t enough, though, he nearly forgets to arm himself before he goes into the hallway. 

He tucks the gun into the waistband of his pants, grimacing. This whole Peter situation has really messed with his head.

“Peter? You still here?” He doesn’t want to shout, in case there actually _is_ an intruder in his apartment. Nothing’s out of place though, and he can’t hear any footsteps, so it’s not likely.

Quentin swears to god, if this is a prank, he’ll throw the little shit out the window.

What if one of those guys came back and snatched Peter right up from under his nose? Dragged him away in the night because Quentin was too busy sleeping to protect him?

No, no, he’s overreacting. Maybe Peter went back to his own apartment, and the police brought him in for questioning. That’s not likely, though— they probably won’t even realize he’s missing until his school calls or something— if they even call. Do schools have winter vacations? Doesn’t matter.

Whether or not Peter left of his own volition, Quentin still shouldn’t have fallen asleep. If someone took him, then Peter’s in big trouble either way. The cops will probably take him in for questioning, where they’ll shout the poor kid into a crying mess. The gangsters, on the other hand, will probably drive him out to the middle of nowhere, where they’ll kill him.

The thought of Peter— small, sad, lonely Peter— tied up in some gangster’s trunk makes him feel a wave of nausea. _Jesus Christ_ , he can’t even protect one measly _kid_. Quentin’s hands are sweaty when he runs them through his hair, and he can barely hear himself think over the pounding in his ears. It’s a weird sensation, one he hasn’t had in a long time, but he still remembers what it is. Panic.

He’s panicking. Why is he panicking? It’s not his problem, he did his part. Let the kid stay with him for the night. Saved his life, even. It’s not his problem, so why does he keep feeling like it is?

The bathroom door is open, with no sign of the kid. The kitchen is empty too. He walks at a snail’s pace, dreading the idea of walking into the room and finding Peter splattered on the walls.

Quentin’s so busy freaking out over a teenager _he barely knows_ that he doesn’t even hear the television turn on. Doesn’t see the boy hunched over in front of his sofa until he almost trips over him on his way into the living room.

Peter blinks up at him with sleepy eyes, seemingly oblivious to the crisis Quentin was having only minutes before. “Morning,” he greets, voice slightly hoarse in that just-woke-up way that he might’ve found endearing given different circumstances. Instead, Quentin doesn’t respond, just keeps staring at the kid at his feet. Peter looks over to the television, and then back up at him. “Oh, sorry. I hope it’s not a big deal. You were sleeping, so...”

Quentin sighs, one long exhale, before dropping down to sit on the couch, cradling his face in his hands. He lets out a sound that toes the line between a scream and a laugh, foreign even to his own ears.

Peter scrambles up onto the couch and he can practically feel the concern radiating off of him, even with his eyes closed. “Mr. Beck? Are you okay?” His hand grasps at his shoulder, shaking him gently, like he’s trying to wake him up from a nightmare. 

Quentin pulls his face out from his hands, feeling relieved to see the kid in one piece— no rope burn on his wrists, no bruises on his cheekbones. He can feel the tension ease from his shoulders, his weight settling into the couch cushions. It takes a shocking amount of self-control for him to not reach out and grab him back, just to make sure he’s really there. What a relief.

Well, he’s relieved, sure, but at the same time, he feels an unexpected flare of annoyance, red-hot in his chest, replacing the panic that gripped him minutes before. It’s an equally unfamiliar feeling— he’s usually so composed, skilled at managing his emotions, for the most part. Not now, though.

Quentin tenses up again, snatching Peter’s hand off his shoulder and crushing it in his grip. “Don’t do that,” he hisses through grit teeth.

Peter blinks at him, seemingly confused. “I— I’m sorry? I won’t watch TV without your permission from now on?”

That’s not it. He waves his hands around in annoyance, feeling slightly ridiculous when he realizes he still hasn’t let go of Peter. “No, not that. It’s just—” He stops himself, focusing on that last thing Peter said. “Whoa. No. There is no _now on_. You have to go.”

“Go _where_?” Peter asks incredulously. “‘Cause, I don’t know if you know this, but my aunt and uncle are my last living relatives.”

Peter realizes his mistake a second later, his eyes starting to water. Quentin’s surprised he hasn’t been crying this whole time, given how easy it is for him to tear up. “Were. They were. They took care of me and they loved me, but now they’re gone. And— and I have no one.”

Quentin doesn’t have anyone either, but he deals with it just fine. He almost tells Peter as much, but then the kid’s wiping at his face with the sleeve of his shirt, his hand squeezing Quentin’s, and he decides to keep it to himself. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it. “But I can’t— you can’t stay here forever. I can help you find a shelter or something, but that’s it.”

Peter shakes his head, still rubbing one eye. “They’ll probably just put me in foster care or something. Make me someone else’s problem.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. He’s about to do something stupid again. “Look,” he starts, “you’re, what, in high school?” Peter nods. “Okay, well, winter break is coming up, right? What if you spend that time looking for a suitable living situation?”

“Um, okay,” Peter says, sounding more than slightly confused.

“And you could— you could stay here until you find one. A suitable living situation, that is.”

There’s a moment where neither of them says anything, and they both just sit on the couch while the cartoons on the television yell on and on about god knows what. Then Peter tugs his hand free— which Quentin forgot he was holding for a _second time_ — before lunging in for a tight hug, knocking them both back against the armrest. 

He waits for Peter to let go, pointedly ignoring how easy it would be to wrap the kid up in his arms and squeeze back. Pointedly ignoring how much he kind of wants to. Just to comfort him, a little bit. “But you owe me— this is the second time I’ve done you a favor and it hasn’t even been a day.”

Peter nods enthusiastically, his brown curls bouncing all over the place like he’s one of the cartoon characters on the television. “Yes, definitely, I’ll do all your chores, everything.”

It takes almost every ounce of decency he has to not make that into an unnecessary sex joke, but he manages. Besides, having someone else do the housework for once would be nice, and the last thing he needs is to scare Peter off after he just offered for him to stay.

“Everything, huh?” Quentin slips out of Peter’s hug. “Can you cook?” It’d be nice if Peter said yes, so he can have something other than take-out for once. But he’s only asking out of curiosity. It’s not like he’ll change his mind just because Peter doesn’t know how to make crêpes.

Peter looks surprised by his question, blinking slowly before averting his gaze. “Uh... I guess I could try to make something, maybe. Are you _really_ hungry?”

It sounds like Peter has absolutely no idea how to cook, but Quentin would love to see him try. He’s got all the time in the world to dick around and eat burnt eggs since Tony doesn’t want to see him until seven. He offers Peter an indulgent smile, enjoying the way he cringes. “Well, I could eat.”

—

Over the course of the day, Quentin learns two important things. 

The first is that Peter is a terrible cook. If it counts as food, Peter can and will burn it. Not only did he burn the eggs, but he also burned the bacon, the pancakes, and the butter he cooked them in. It’s almost impressive, not to mention endearing. Peter seemed so frustrated by the fruits of his labor, blowing stray curls off of his forehead every time he’d plate a misshapen and burnt pancake. It’s so endearing that Quentin almost doesn’t mind pushing him out of the way and making breakfast for the both of them.

The second is that taking Peter in is less like having a roommate, and more like having a dog. The kid spends his entire morning following Quentin around, and when he’s not actively sitting or standing next to him, he’s always somewhere in his periphery. The concept is horror-movie worthy, but the execution leaves something to be desired. Every time Quentin thinks he’s finally had enough, finally going to ask Peter to give him some space so he can read his magazine in peace, Peter blinks those wide, sad brown eyes at him, and he forgets whatever it is he was going to complain about in the first place.

It’s not necessarily bad, just different. He hasn’t lived with anyone else in a long time. A really, really long time. It’ll just take some getting used to. Besides, Peter’s not like your average roommate, considering the boatload of trauma he’d been through only a day earlier. Quentin will just let him adjust in whatever way he sees fit, as long as it doesn’t become too much of an inconvenience.

“So... what do you do for work?” Peter asks when they’re sitting on the couch, Quentin typing away on his laptop while Peter fiddles with the drawstrings of his hoodie. 

Quentin looks over at Peter, curled up on the opposite end of the couch. His face is illuminated by a flickering wash of colors from the TV, his eyelashes casting shadows along his cheekbones. Even after everything that’s happened to him, there’s something light about the way he carries himself. Maybe he’s stronger than he looks.

Peter lifts his eyes to gaze right back, probably because Quentin’s staring a hole through his face, so he quickly turns his attention back to his screen. He’d been skimming through the files Tony forwarded him last week, a random mix of targets from all walks of life. One of them is a _teacher_. A teacher involved with drug cartels, sure, but still. He can’t exactly tell Peter he kills teachers.

“I’m a screenwriter,” he says after a while, completely unconvincingly. It’s not too far from the truth— he has a bunch of old scripts sitting around somewhere, leftover from his high school days before he dropped out to become a full-time hitman.

“No way, a screenwriter?” Peter sits up, cramming his socked feet under Quentin’s thigh. “Like, for TV shows?”

“Yeah, kinda. I’ve never gotten anything green-lit, though, so don’t bother Googling me.”

“I’m sure you’ll get your big break soon,” Peter says with a smile, then pauses. “Can I read one of your scripts?”

There’s a second where Quentin almost says yes, just to give Peter something to do, but he changes his mind. This is their first day together and he’s already getting too familiar. He shakes his head, before closing his laptop. “Not right now. Maybe I’ll let you read something before you go.”

An anxious look flickers on Peter’s face, almost unnoticeable, if it weren’t for the fact that Quentin is very, very good at noticing things. “Sounds good,” he says, offering a half-smile that doesn’t match the far-away look in his eyes. 

Best to let him deal with that on his own.

The clock on the wall reads 6:18. _Shit_. If Quentin leaves now, he’ll probably be at least twenty minutes early to his appointment with Tony. Twenty extra minutes with Tony is twenty-one minutes too long. Maybe he could sneak in through the back and hide with the spare car parts until it’s time for them to meet. Is it worth getting his white button-down all grease-stained and disgusting, though?

Peter interrupts his train of thought. “If you’re done with your work and stuff, could we rent a movie? It can be something you’d wanna watch, ‘cause I’m pretty much up for anything.”

Apparently, getting his fifty dollar shirt dirty might be worth it. “Actually, Pete,” he says, standing up with a groan. “Can we save it for another time?”

Peter nods, and his expression isn’t as disappointed as Quentin had expected it to be. “Sure, whenever you want.” He looks like he wants to say something else, so Quentin raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. “Nah, nothing— it’s just that, you keep calling me that. Pete.”

“I didn’t realize. Sorry. I’ll try to call you Peter.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Peter says, smiling softly. “Seriously.”

Something in the air shifts, like they’re making some sort of roommate breakthrough, like they’re _befriending_ each other. Quentin cringes a little bit. “I should go. Now,” he says, gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder, the action as awkward as he feels. 

“Where are you going?”

_Oh, right._ Quentin freezes, midway through tugging on his jacket. “I’m going to meet a... friend,” he says after a beat.

“Doesn’t really sound like they’re a friend,” Peter jokes, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch.

“Oh, you have no idea,” he huffs, snatching up his case by the foyer. “Okay, I’m going. Don’t answer the door for strangers.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Okay, anything else, _grandma_?”

“Yeah.” Quentin grins. “Don’t cook anything while I’m gone.”

Peter shouts an indignant _hey_ , but Quentin closes the door with a flourish, cutting off his indignant protests.

—

Given the rapport he and Tony have built up over the years, Quentin expects an insult once he swings the door open at the auto body shop. Maybe even a dirty rag to the face, since he’s so early. Something immature.

He didn’t expect a surprised exhale of his name, followed by a laugh. “You’re not dead?” Tony asks, looking like he’s seen a ghost. Or, whatever that expression would look like on him instead of the average person. So, somewhere between unnerved and inconvenienced. Unexpected, regardless.

“Am I supposed to be?” 

“Yes, you goddamn dick,” Tony says, hurling a dirty rag at him. There it is. “You know how our coworkers all love the sound of their own voices?”

It seems like a jab, but Quentin’ll let it slide. “Sure.”

“A little bird told me that you’d been knocked off once and for all. That someone higher up wanted you gone. Someone _important_.”

“Okay,” Quentin responds, unamused. “Well, you can tell that little bird I’m still in one piece.”

“Huh, guess so. Must’ve killed the wrong guy then. Poor son of a bitch.” Quentin freezes. “Kinda Shakespearean though, don’t you think? The whole thing with the mistaken identity.”

Mistaken identity. “Yeah,” he says, sitting down at the workbench. “Shakespearean.”

There are plenty of people who look like him in New York City. Quentin racks his brain, trying to remember what Peter’s uncle looked like. Brown hair, maybe? But there’s no way someone could confuse the two of them, right? 

They were neighbors, though. And no one has a good idea of what he looks like. One mediocre description could’ve cost two people their lives. Almost three.

“You okay, Beck? Looking kind of pale, there.”

He nods his head slowly. “Yeah, fine. Go ahead.”

Tony breaks down the basics about his next hit. Where he lives, what he does for work, his favorite coffee shop. Quentin only half-listens though, too busy thinking about the possibility that _he’s_ responsible for the orphan in his apartment. That he’s responsible for the deaths down the hall, and for once, he wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger.

It chews at him for the rest of their meeting. He needs to know who wants him dead, sure, but he also needs to know who killed Peter’s family. Tony’s in the middle of explaining how he built Quentin’s new silencer when he interrupts him to ask. “Do you know who would’ve ordered the hit? I mean, who would want me dead?”

Tony hums, placing the silencer back into its case. “Hard to say. You’re not exactly Mr. Popular. If I had to guess, it’s probably some sort of under the table order. Maybe from HYDRA, or SHIELD, considering they’re practically one and the same.”

_HYDRA or SHIELD_ bounces around inside Quentin’s head for the rest of the night, even as he trudges home in the snow. The walk seems longer, partially because of the guilt weighing on his shoulders. He’s at least tangentially responsible for Peter’s dead aunt and uncle. _Fuck_.

As a sort of apology, he picks up some food on the way home. Italian comfort food won’t exactly fill the aunt and uncle-shaped holes in Peter’s life, but maybe it’ll make him feel better, and that’s more than Quentin could hope for.

—

Things just never seem to work out for him. The moment he opens the door to his apartment, he’s faced with one of the worst things he could possibly find. Peter, crying on the floor of his living room.

Quentin drops his bags, rushing over and crouching down, hands itching to hold his shoulders. “Hey, hey, what happened, Pete? What’s wrong?”

Peter shakes his head, a teardrop running down his cheek and splashing onto his hoodie. “Why would someone do this?” he asks in a broken voice, lifting up a picture frame that Quentin hadn’t noticed he’d been holding. It’s a photo of him and his aunt and uncle, smiling together at the zoo. 

_His uncle has brown hair._

There’s a bag stuffed with clothes on the couch. Peter must’ve gone over to his apartment to pick up some of his things. If it were a different situation, maybe Quentin would’ve felt annoyed by Peter settling in. Now, the least he can do is give the kid a place to stay. “I don’t know. They— they didn’t deserve it. No matter what your uncle got caught up in.” He shrugs off his jacket, before using his button-down sleeve to wipe at Peter’s wet face. 

“Who would do something like that? Just _murdering_ innocent people?”

Who _would_ do something like that? Quentin swallows thickly, pulling his hand away from Peter like he’s been burned. He doesn’t kill innocent people, but he doubts that it matters to Peter. Doubts that it matters in the eyes of someone so genuinely _good_. “I don’t know,” he says again, because he doesn’t know what else he can say.

Peter slumps, sobbing one last time before putting down the picture. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s happening with me. I thought I was handling it. Guess not.”

“Stop apologizing,” Quentin murmurs as a reflex, before sitting down next to him and placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. “I promise, whoever did this won’t get away with it.”

There’s no way that Peter could guess what he means by that. He gives him a sad smile. “No way man. Do you know how much crime there is in New York?”

“I have an idea, yeah.”

First thing tomorrow, he’ll start looking into whoever ordered the hit on him. Just to make sure they’re not still looking for him— for either of them. Quentin glances down at Peter, who’s already staring back up at him with red-rimmed eyes. He gives him a wan smile, and Quentin’s chest hurts. “I’m grateful, you know.”

“Yeah, kid. I know.”

The two of them must be the loneliest people in the entire world.

“I’m sorry,” Quentin exhales suddenly, barely louder than the ambient noise of the city. “I’m so sorry, Peter.”

Peter places a hand over Quentin’s, giving it a weak squeeze. “Don’t apologize so much,” he says softly, before smiling. “That’s my thing.”

_God._ He’ll do what he can to help Peter get his life back. If that means giving him a place to sleep for the next two years, then so be it. Hell, he’ll even pay for boarding school in the fall, forge his uncle’s signature— anything. Everything.

It’s the least he can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! i am very melodramatic
> 
> the good news is i’ve planned this fic out from start to finish, so i know where i’m going now! it’s probably going to be around 13 chapters..... very Large
> 
> yes. the rumors are true. i am on [twitter](twitter.com/piagnucolares)


	3. apartment 604

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The main problem with all of this closeness is how easy things have become between them. It’s like they’re friends who have known each other for years and decided to move in together— not like they’re two strangers thrown together by unfortunate circumstances. And sometimes, when he’s listening to one of his vinyl records and Peter keeps tugging at his hands, trying to get him to dance, he almost feels like they’re more than that altogether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn’t update for months and now two updates in less than a week
> 
> happy birthday to my love ursulamerkle!!!!!!!! i dedicate this longer chapter to her and also to the song 22

“No. We’re not watching _The Phantom Menace_. Choose something else.”

Peter frowns, still typing out the title with the remote in his hand. “But I don’t wanna watch something else, I wanna watch the prequels.”

Quentin flicks a popcorn kernel at him from the almost-empty bowl in his lap, chuckling when he swats at his arm. They’ve been trying to pick a movie for at least thirty minutes, without any progress. He’s starting to lose interest, having eaten all of his snacks while Peter scrolled aimlessly through their options. “If you wanted to watch the prequels, then we shouldn’t have started with _A New Hope_ ,” he sing-songs. “Now you’ve completely messed up the timeline.”

Peter doesn’t stop searching for the movie, so Quentin takes matters into his own hands, snatching the remote out of his grip, ignoring his indignant cry.

“Let’s see, I think I wanna watch _Gone with the Wind_.” Peter reaches for the remote, but a well-placed palm to the face keeps him at bay. Quentin can practically smother him with one hand alone, and he _will_ use it to his advantage. “What do you think?”

“I know you’re old, man, but you’ve gotta be kidding me,” Peter groans, pulling the hand off of his face. “That’s like, a five-hour movie.”

“Excuse me, it’s a classic,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “I mean, Clark Gable? Vivien Leigh?”

Peter stares at him blankly.

“Not ringing any bells, huh?” He sighs dramatically. “Your generation has no respect for the greats.”

“You’re like, forty! You weren’t even alive when the movie came out!”

Quentin starts typing in the title, but he only manages to make it to _gon_ before Peter’s making grabby hands for the remote again. “Come on,” he whines, “you said we could watch _Star Wars._ ”

“I thought you were only talking about the first movie, not all nine of them.” He raises his arm, clutching the remote in a death-grip while Peter leans closer to try and yank it down. 

“Mr. Beck,” Peter says, “can I _please_ have the remote?” There’s a slight furrow to his eyebrows that can only mean one thing— he’s about to use the puppy eyes. Like flipping a switch, Peter’s brown eyes glaze over with unshed tears.

Over the course of the past week or so, Quentin has learned one very important fact about himself— he’s a sucker for the goddamn puppy eyes. And, given the way he’s fighting back a grin, Peter must’ve learned it too. It’s nice to see him smile, though, even if it means he’ll have to sit through a marathon of the _Star Wars_ movies.

It’s equal parts pathetic and cute, and Quentin’s about to hand him the remote, but then the kid crams a knee between his thighs. He’s dangerously close to his crotch, which seems inappropriate because, as Peter said, he’s _forty_. Never mind the fact that he’s actually thirty-eight. He doubts that actually matters in the grand scheme of things. Thirty-eight-year-olds with a less than platonic interest in their sixteen-year-old roommates are practically the same as forty-year-olds with less than platonic interest in their sixteen-year-old roommates.

No, whoa. Absolutely not. They’re just roommates. Roommates who have one-hundred percent platonic feelings for each other.

He drops the remote into Peter’s outstretched hand, which gets a triumphant cheer out of him as he settles back onto his side of the couch. Far away from Quentin’s crotch, thank God. 

The distance doesn’t stop him from thinking about it though. They’ve grown closer in the past week, obviously. Quentin’s apartment isn’t very big, and Peter’s always within a five-foot radius of him, so they’re practically living in each other’s pockets. The only time he gets a break is when he’s out for work, otherwise, they’re attached at the hip. They eat together, they watch movies together— they even slept in the same bed for a few nights, before Quentin decided that he needed to establish some boundaries and promptly moved Peter’s pillow into the living room, uncomfortable couch be damned. He was so insistent about sleeping there on the first night, anyway. 

The main problem with all of this closeness is how easy things have become between them. It’s like they’re friends who have known each other for years and decided to move in together— not like they’re two strangers thrown together by unfortunate circumstances. And sometimes, when he’s listening to one of his vinyl records and Peter keeps tugging at his hands, trying to get him to dance, he almost feels like they’re more than that altogether.

He’ll chalk it up to loneliness— attribute it to the fact that he hasn’t had a hookup in a while, or that he hasn’t had a single relationship since high school, so his idea of affection is a little skewed. The best thing he can do to curb any weird thoughts is to keep some space between them, emotionally and physically.

Quentin scooches even further away from Peter, pressing uncomfortably against the arm of the couch. If Peter notices that he’s acting differently, he doesn’t say anything— apparently too entranced by the _Lucasfilm_ logo on the TV to notice the crisis occurring just in his periphery.

It’s better if he’s left completely in the dark. Quentin’s not supposed to be infatuated with his roommate, he’s supposed to be protecting an orphan from the people who murdered his family. The last thing he needs is for Peter to think he has any ulterior motives. He’s his responsibility— nothing more, nothing less.

Peter slips his feet under Quentin’s thigh, and Quentin tries not to think about how nice it’d be if they were _more_. About how nice it is to share his couch instead of sitting alone.

—

For all intents and purposes, this should be an easy hit. Maybe the easiest hit of his entire career.

Quentin spent his entire afternoon in a cozy café, alternating between reading the file, scoping out the apartment building from across the street, and sipping on his chai latte. He’s not worried— as far as he can tell, the guy has no idea just how much of an inconvenience he’s become. Just a small-time dealer who’s starting to encroach on his contractor’s territory, completely unaware that he’s swimming with sharks.

There’s only a slight problem— a doorman at the entrance to the building— but Quentin can just scale up the fire escape and climb in through a hallway window. He’ll be in and out in the blink of an eye and come home in time for dinner. 

“Let me guess,” Peter had sighed, not even looking up from his book. “You’re meeting a friend.”

There was something in his voice that reminded Quentin of a chagrined housewife who knows her husband is cheating on her but refuses to say anything about it. It kind of felt like he’d been caught red-handed, caught doing something bad, even though he knows Peter has no idea what he’s really doing. If the kid knew what was really going on, Quentin doubts he’d be sprawled out on his couch, sipping orange juice and reading Quentin’s old copy of _Brave New World_.

He was almost out the door when Peter called after him, in that lilting voice, “don’t stay out too late— I wanna get takeout tonight.”

Quentin had promised he’d be back in time for them to get whatever kind of takeout Peter’s heart desired, and he’s not the type of guy who goes back on his word— even if most people who have met him would argue otherwise.

He slips his things back into his case, before carefully tucking the pain au chocolat he bought for Peter into the breast pocket of his coat. It can be an after-takeout treat, and an apology for leaving him home alone so often. He doesn’t know what Peter spends his free time doing while he’s alone in the apartment, but he doubts it’s anything social. The kid never goes out to see his friends— never even mentions his friends, now that he thinks about it. 

Maybe it’s Quentin’s fault, maybe he’s too overprotective.

Or maybe he’s too lenient? He doesn’t force Peter to go to school, even though he’s pretty sure winter break hasn’t started yet. He lets the kid lounge around the apartment, watching TV and eating takeout practically every night. That seems like it’d be the first chapter in _How to Be a Bad Parent_. Good thing he’s not Peter’s parent.

Quentin weaves between parked cars, his eyes trained on the building in front of him. As far as he can tell, there’s only one fire escape, which means he’s only got one way in. He skids to a stop under the rusted metal ladder. If he’s right about the layout of the building, he could take the stairs up to the sixth floor and slip in through the hallway window. He tugs on the metal, flinching when it gives a horrible, heaving creak. Peter would absolutely kill him if he knew that he was busy doing _this_ instead of watching _Star Wars_.

Okay, no more Peter thoughts. Quentin let him infiltrate almost every single aspect of his life, but he draws a line at work. He’s never missed a hit, and he’s not going to start now. Besides, if he fucks this up because he’s too busy thinking about Peter, then he doesn’t get paid, and then the two of them can’t keep renting movies and ordering takeout left and right.

The warmth of the hallway is a welcome respite from the biting winter wind on the fire escape, but Quentin keeps his guard up. If his target knows he’s coming, he might try and run, which would cause a whole new slew of problems. It’s hard to murder someone when they’re trying so hard to not get murdered.

He checks the number on the door— apartment number 604, just like the note on the briefing said. Perfect. Quentin knocks on the door with a few delicate raps of his knuckle. “Package for Roger Harrington?”

There’s no verbal response, so he presses his ear against the wood, listening. Waiting for that tell-tale sound of an opening window that usually precedes runners. He doesn’t hear anything like that, though. What he does hear is the sound of a gun cocking— not just a gun cocking, a shotgun— and he should definitely move his head now, unless he wants to get his brains blown out and splattered across the ugly hallway wallpaper.

_Bang!_

Quentin narrowly avoids the huge blast, the door swinging open and splintering into little pieces, sending chunks spraying into his hair. His ears are ringing from being so close to the impact, but he still manages to hear the man shout, “you’ll never take me alive!”

“That’s the idea!” Quentin growls back, unholstering his pistol and leaning his head into the doorway. He fires a blind shot towards the direction of Harrington’s voice, but instead of being met with the satisfying sounds of a man dying, he gets a smash of shotgun shell-on-drywall.

For fuck’s sake, there’s no way this asshole is going down without a fight. What the fuck does he think this is, a goddamn action movie? He’s only making things more difficult— if this fiasco ends up making him late for dinner, he’ll make sure this guy dies a painful, drawn-out death. 

The good news is that the neighbors are probably calling the cops as they speak, so Quentin has to act fast if he wants to be out of the way before they arrive. It’ll be a pain in the ass to beat the clock. Then again, wasn’t he the one who said he hated the monotony of his job, just last week? Maybe he should count this as a blessing in disguise.

Quentin scrambles into the apartment once the gunshots stop, tucking himself against the wall as he edges further into the danger zone. The whole place is a mess, everything upturned and scattered around haphazardly. Seems like the guy’s been panicking long before Quentin arrived on his doorstep. 

He hears a scuffle to his right, catching a glimpse of Harrington before the man runs down the hall and turns a corner. Not a good choice— Quentin studied the layout of the apartment religiously before coming up. He’s backed himself into a wall. 

“Gotcha,” Quentin hums under his breath, tossing a decorative vase down the hallway.

When Harrington wastes a shell on the poor, innocent pottery, Quentin takes his chance. He turns the corner, kicking up a leg in a graceful arc, before slamming the heel of his boot down onto the shotgun clutched between the man’s shaking hands. It goes skidding across the floor, and a finally disarmed Harrington pulls his arms close to his chest. Quentin’s on him in a second, silencer end of his pistol pressed up against his sweaty temple. 

“Thanks for making it so easy,” he pants around a grin, cocking his gun and tightening his hold on the trigger.

“Fuck you!”

For a skinny, pallid teacher, Quentin didn’t expect him to be such a fighter. He also didn’t expect the knife embedded just under his collarbone. 

The pain is absolutely mind-numbing— knee-weakening even— and he staggers back, temporarily stunned. Harrington gives him a firm push that sends him tripping over a bunched-up rug, hitting the floor with a solid thud that makes his teeth rattle inside his skull. 

Quentin doesn’t have time to succumb to the dizziness, or the growing blackness around the edges of his vision. He shakes his head, springing back into motion— his hand pointing the pistol at Harrington’s calf and squeezing the trigger, tripping him onto the ground with a bullet in the leg. He scrambles up onto his knees and pulls the trigger again. A fatal shot, square in the chest.

Speaking of chest— the knife is still securely lodged under his collarbone. It hurts like a fucking bitch, like it’s in deep, through muscle and maybe even into bone. At least, it feels like it is. Quentin wracks his brain for any anatomy knowledge, but comes up short. 

Harrington gives a weak wheeze from his spot on the floor, before shuddering and going still. Fantastic. Now he can finally go home. 

Quentin shuffles towards the door, gingerly stepping over the body laid out in the hallway. He likes the killing part just fine, but the aftermath? No thanks.

He tucks his pistol back into his jacket, careful not to jostle the knife in his shoulder, and picks up his equipment off of the hallway floor. The pain in his shoulder is only getting worse, especially now that he’s carrying the weight of his case. It feels bad, feels serious. He grits his teeth— first, he’ll have to get out of the building and away from the crime scene, and then he can stop to examine the damage.

It seems like a fair compromise. How bad could the damage be, anyway? 

Quentin climbs out the hallway window and onto the fire escape. His foot snags on the windowsill, though, sending him stumbling into the rail and knocking the knife against it with the full force of his body. “ _Fuck!_ ” he groans, standing back up on shaky legs, spotty vision returning in full force. He has to brace himself against the railing for a minute, letting his vertigo subside before beginning his descent into the safety of the alleyway.

Thankfully, he manages to make it down the fire escape without plummeting onto the concrete below. His shoulder throbs with every little shift of muscle, and Quentin bemusedly notices the giant, growing bloodstain spreading across his jacket. In the late evening light, the blood looks black against the maroon of his coat, like he’s the one who’s been shot, right above his breast pocket.

All he can think about at that moment— somewhat nonsensically— is how Peter’s pain au chocolat has undoubtedly been marinating in his blood.

Right. Peter. There’s no way he can hide this from him. He’ll have to say someone stabbed him, obviously— that’s the truth. Maybe he’ll embellish the story by saying he was mugged, and that he narrowly escaped with his life. Then he’ll lock himself in the bathroom with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a needle, and stitch his chest up good as new.

Fuck.

It’s moments like these where Quentin wishes he had health insurance.

—

Peter’s sprawled out on the couch when Quentin staggers into the apartment an hour or so later. He’s in the same spot as he was when Quentin left, but now he’s napping, no book in hand. He almost feels bad for disturbing him, especially when he looks so peaceful, but his arms are tired and he all but drops his case onto the ground, flicking on the light with his one good arm.

There’s a moment where Peter blinks awake, giving him the softest, sleepiest smile— and then he’s up in a heartbeat, crowding into Quentin’s space with that worried look on his face. “Oh my god, oh my god— Mr. Beck, _what happened_?” Peter puts a tentative hand on his shoulder, and he can’t help but flinch away.

“I got mugged,” he grunts, moving past Peter and towards the bathroom where he knows he’s got a first aid kit. Peter trails after him, fretting the whole walk to the bathroom.

“You got mugged, and then you walked all the way home with a _knife_ in your chest? Didn’t anyone see you?”

“People saw me, sure— but it’s New York.” He chuckles breathlessly. “They see weirder things all the time.”

He can’t take off his shirt until he pulls out the knife, so he gets a good grip on the handle, careful not to jostle the blade. Peter lingers in the doorway, watching nervously. “Shouldn’t we get you to a hospital? You’re bleeding—“

“Look away,” he interrupts, a genuine command that has Peter spinning mid-word to face out into the hallway.

Even though he told Peter to look away, in order to prevent this from completely scarring him, the squelch of the knife being pulled out from his shoulder should be plenty traumatizing on its own. Quentin wads up toilet paper, blotting at the new gush of blood that runs from the wound. “I don’t think you want this anymore,” he jokes, pulling out Peter’s dessert from his coat pocket and waving it around until he turns.

“Oh god,” Peter wails, surprisingly dramatic for someone his age. Quentin thought all teenage boys went through that phase where they’re into action and gore. “There’s so much blood.”

“I just need to stitch this up.” Quentin rummages around under the sink with his boot. “Can you get that first aid kit for me?”

Peter ducks past him, dutifully retrieving the red box, despite the way he freezes up at all the blood in the sink. “Do you— do you need any help?” he asks as Quentin peels off his bloody coat with a groan. “I’ve done some first aid training at school.”

It’s a well-intentioned offer, but Quentin can see the queasy look on the kid’s face. The way his face pales at the knife in the sink, or at Quentin’s bloody shirt, so soaked through that it’s actually clinging to his chest. His eyes widen when Quentin impatiently tears off his button-down, revealing his bloody chest, his stab wound. He’s tempted to make some sort of joke about the way Peter’s gawking at his chest, but he’ll save it for a better time.

Peter’s obviously unnerved by, or at least uncomfortable with all the blood. That’s fine. He can do it by himself— he’s done it before and he’ll probably have to do it again. “No offense, kid, but I don’t think your high school CPR certification is going to be any help.”

Peter’s bratty rebuttal dies in his throat as he watches Quentin clumsily attempt to pour alcohol onto a cloth one-handed. “Let me do it,” he says, knocking his hand out of the way and snatching up the cloth. “I want to help.”

Quentin watches him wearily, not saying anything even though he feels like he should. There’s a determined set to Peter’s brows that he’s never seen before, something serious in his eyes that makes him seem older. It’s sad to think that he’s growing up faster than everyone else because of circumstances. And Quentin has just unwittingly speeded up the process by exposing him to all this blood. At least the bodies were gone by the time he went back to his apartment.

Even though Peter tries his best to be gentle, dabbing at the wound with the corner of the cloth, it still hurts. Quentin hisses through his teeth, giving Peter a smile when he glances up, concerned. The fact that he’s doing it so slowly, so gently, actually makes it worse— if he were by himself, he would just bite the bullet and scrub all the blood away. All this tenderness makes his skin crawl.

“Peter,” he starts, voice almost unbearably soft, rendered gentle like the accidental brush of Peter’s hand against his skin. _Peter._ He’s not sure what he wants to say after that, though. Maybe saying his name— saying it softly— is enough to convey what he’s trying to put into words. 

Peter finishes cleaning his skin with a sigh. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to a hospital? It’s still bleeding like crazy.” Quentin shakes his head, and the kid grits his teeth in what seems to be annoyance. “I just can’t believe you got stabbed. _Stabbed._ Any lower and you could have died. Do you not get how serious this is?”

Quentin’s too busy focusing on threading the needle to really give Peter the reassurance he seems to need. “Par for the course,” he jokes as he starts stitching up the stab wound, slipping the needle through his skin with a hiss. It’s not as deep as he expected it to be— as long as he doesn’t get any infections, he’ll probably be fine. Probably.

“Oh my god,” Peter groans, throwing his hands up in defeat. “You’re something else, man. Really.” He storms off down the hall, and Quentin rolls his eyes as he goes. It’s sweet that he cares so much, but really, if he’s going to get worked up like this every single time Quentin comes home with a scratch, then he’s going to have to find another place to live.

The attention is nice, though. The concern and whatnot. Thinking about Peter staying up late— worrying about him— makes his chest ache in a completely new way. Less knife to the chest, more arrow to the heart. 

Quentin finishes up the stitches, snipping the thread between his canines with a satisfying pop. He tucks everything back under the sink, before slipping on his bathrobe— best to not ruin any more button-downs for the time being. Besides, his arm is still sore, and probably will be for a long while, so the last thing he needs is to twist it the wrong way while trying to wrangle on a shirt. 

At least he’s not bleeding everywhere. He’ll have to throw his coat away, the shirt too— both soaked through with his blood, a single hole where the knife cut them open. They’ll be joining the pain au chocolat in the trash. Peter’s pastry sits forlornly in the wastebasket, the white paper of its bag turned a rusty red. 

He might not have brought home an apology dessert— at least, not one that he can eat— but they can still order in. It’s only nine, and it’s not like Peter has a set bedtime anyway. They could watch a movie too, while they’re at it. _Attack of the Clones_ , if Peter’s feeling up for it.

Quentin makes his way back to the living room, tightening the belt of his bathrobe and feeling suspiciously like he’s doing a walk of shame. Just the result of a bad day, maybe. He did get stabbed, after all. But it’s nothing a little takeout won’t fix.

He stops dead in his tracks before he even sets foot in the living room. Peter’s sitting on the floor in front of the couch, just like that first morning they’d spent together. Only this time, instead of watching cartoons, he’s got Quentin’s files spread out on the floor, his pistol on top of everything like the cherry on a sundae. A murder cherry on a hitman sundae.

“Peter,” he says again, because apparently, his brain isn’t very good at making full sentences today. “I can explain.”

There’s a moment of tense, unwavering silence. Peter just shakes his head, his eyes watering— really watering, fuck. A bad sign. “What is all this? Who are all these people?” His hands are unsteady when they rifle through the documents, but he doesn’t seem scared. He seems _angry._

Yeah, this is bad. Bad as in, not-even-take-out-can-fix-this bad. 

Fuck.

Peter tilts his head up, brown eyes dark and shining. Challenging. “Who _are_ you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mr. harrington i’m sorry fly high angel
> 
> also there was recently a spike in kudos/views for this fic so thank you..... thank you for your comments too i sit and think about them a lot..... they make me wanna write Good :)
> 
> catch ya on the [flipside](http://twitter.com/piagnucolares)


	4. noon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This should be a run-of-the-mill dinner for the two of them, even with the change of scenery. Sure, the last half-hour has been anything _but_ run-of-the-mill, what with the whole murder confession, but he thinks they can feign normalcy long enough to eat out. Quentin just wants to have a nice night out with his roommate.
> 
> But it’s never that easy with this kid, is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long overdue….. but my longest chapter yet!!!! thanks for your comments and kudos ! i always enjoy your words and i hope you’ll enjoy mine too :~)
> 
> also shoutout to my angel [ursulamerkle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ursulamerkle/pseuds/ursulamerkle) for reading through this BEHEMOTH and giving me hilarious notes <3 go read [her serial killer au](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26296093/chapters/64024768) for more murder
> 
> spoilers for. thelma & louise..?

Growing up, Quentin always knew he was a bit different from the other kids.

He chose his words carefully, but not out of concern for other people’s feelings— just out of self-preservation. He never really cried for others, never cried for himself. It seemed like a waste of time, for the most part. Tears don’t change anything. They can’t wash away pain or heartbreak, just make your eyes itch and your head hurt.

His foster parents always said he was detached— cold, even— in a way that usually signifies that a child has some deep-seated issues. The kind of issues that lead to serial killers or politicians, a precursor to evil. Issues that would make your foster parents keep you at an arm’s length for the entire duration of your time with them, before handing you over to the next sorry couple who felt like being charitable for a year or two— before they eventually come to the same conclusion.

It was strange, being told by the people you loved— the people who were supposed to care about you— that you were so _abnormal_. That you didn’t love, or you couldn’t love, just because you didn’t know how to express it well enough for them to understand.

So, why express it at all? Quentin decided to embrace being detached— it was easier that way.

Tony thought it was an advantage, his whole emotional unavailability thing. Like a superpower. It made it easier for him to carry out hits if he never felt much of anything towards his targets. He didn’t have anyone at home that he needed to worry about, on the off-chance that he dies. He had no one to worry about but himself. 

After a while, it seemed like that was how it was always going to be. That he’d never care for anyone else in a way that they could understand, never care enough to put their feelings before his own. Self-absorbed, self-obsessed. A _narcissist_.

And yet, now, with Peter staring up at him from his place on the ground, demanding the truth, he doesn’t know what to say. He wants to say something that will make this easier on the both of them, make sure that he spreads the weight of his words so the two of them bend but don’t break. Something that will smooth over the cracks between them, widening right before his very eyes. Something that will make things okay.

But then again, if he cares about Peter, then he should tell him the truth. The ugly, awful, bloody truth.

“I’m a hitman,” he says in a rush of breath, feeling ridiculous saying it out loud, standing in his fluffy hundred-dollar bathrobe. It’s a confession he’s never had to make, something he’s never actually admitted to anyone. It’s a weight off his chest. “I kill people for money.”

“I know what a hitman is,” Peter snaps, still angry. He has every right to be upset— finding out that he’s been rubbing elbows with a murderer isn’t exactly a walk in the park. “I just— I guess I just don’t understand why.”

Quentin kneels next to him, slowly— careful not to get too close. “Why does anyone do anything?” It’s vague, deliberately so, and Peter shoots him a nasty look. “It’s just a job. And I’m good at it.”

“Good at killing people, is that what you mean?” Peter shakes his head, but freezes mid-motion— so sudden that Quentin leans away. All the color drains from Peter’s face, going pale in an instant, so quickly that Quentin worries he’s going to pass out. “Did you— my aunt and uncle— did you know about it? Do you work with those guys?”

“No! God no, Peter.” He doesn’t seem convinced, furrowing his eyebrows and staring him down. Quentin’s hands twitch by his sides, wanting to reach out and touch, reach out and close the distance between them that keeps growing— but he knows that the hands of a murderer don’t typically provide any comfort. So he keeps them away from Peter, tries to imbue his next words with the most honesty he can muster. “I promise you.”

“Well, you’re not exactly the most trustworthy person, are you?” 

Ouch. That one stings— even if he deserves it. “Peter, I _promise_ , I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“But you would’ve done it if someone paid you to, right?”

The implicit _yes_ hangs in the air between them. Quentin doesn’t want to put it into words, can’t make that admission, so he settles. “I wouldn’t do that to you,” he says after some thought, “if I knew you. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.”

It’s not a good answer, doesn’t make anything better, but it’s the truth. He’d never hurt Peter, now that he knows him. If he didn’t know him— if he hadn’t seen him at his loneliest, lowest point— then he’d just be another random person in the sights of his gun. He shudders thinking about it.

“Do you know who did it?” Peter asks suddenly, turning and facing Quentin with that intense look in his brown eyes. “Or could you find out?”

That’s something he should definitely tell Peter the truth about. “I’m already looking into it,” he confesses, gesturing down at the folders in a heap. “I’m— I’m pretty sure they might’ve confused your apartment for mine.” He doesn’t elaborate— doesn’t mention the similarities between him and Peter’s uncle, that they meant to kill Quentin instead. The kid seems smart enough. He can probably connect the dots on his own.

Instead of being upset, or even blaming him, as Quentin expected, Peter just turns back to the pile in front of him. He rummages through the files, flips through paper after paper, but it’s not clear what he’s looking for. Maybe he’s just keeping his hands busy so he doesn’t accidentally punch Quentin in the throat, well-deserved as it is.

“That means they’re still out there, right?” Peter asks after a long silence, broken only by shuffling paper. “They could come back and try to hurt you again?”

“I guess so.” Quentin shrugs, because, frankly, he’s not too bothered by the fact that people want him dead. It’s almost flattering. “I don’t think I’ve got any solid leads yet, but I know that whoever ordered the hit on me must have really wanted me gone.”

He picks at some imaginary lint on his bathrobe, thinking about what he wants to say next. “It’s fine. God knows I deserve it. I’m just sorry that they got the wrong person.”

Peter drops the files, turning around and smacking Quentin’s good arm. He looks livid. “Don’t say that,” he hisses, low and sharp. “Don’t ever— god, don’t say that.”

Fuck, he really does care about this stupid goddamn kid. Quentin ignores the ache in his shoulder and the voice that keeps telling him not to touch. He takes both of Peter’s hands in his, cradling them in his palms, careful. “I’ll fix this. I promise— I’ll make sure they never hurt anyone ever again.”

Peter shakes his head again. “No. You can’t go after them, not by yourself. You said they were dangerous— that they want you gone for good. I can’t let you do that for me.”

It’s interesting how Peter knows Quentin was doing it all for him and him alone. Not for the greater good, not for Quentin’s own safety— just to avenge Peter’s loved ones, to keep him safe in case those monsters are still out there looking for him. “I want to,” he says, rushed like another confession. “I want to make sure you’ll be safe. With or without me, when you go back to your normal life.”

“I’ll never have a normal life again.” 

Quentin stares down at their intertwined hands, rubbing his thumb over the skin of Peter’s palm. It’s smoother than his own hands— a startling lack of calluses that shows just how distanced Peter is from his world. How different they are. “Shut up. You will,” he insists, tightening his hold. “I’m going to make sure those fucks never bother you again, and then you’ll go back to school— back to a life where your biggest concern is failing a calculus exam or getting a prom date.”

“You’re going to kill them?” Peter asks, ignoring Quentin’s reassurances. Pulling away from his touch. It’s the blunt and ugly truth, and it sounds strange coming out of Peter’s soft and pretty mouth. 

_Kill them._ He’d tried so hard to use non-threatening euphemisms, skirt around the whole murder thing. “If I have to. If that’s what it takes to keep you safe, then yes.”

Peter doesn’t react for a moment. There’s a part of Quentin that expected the kid to put up a fight— to tell him that murder isn’t the answer. Instead, Peter just picks up the files and hands them back to him silently.

“I promise, I won’t let them hurt you ever again,” he repeats, eyes trained on Peter’s face.

“It’s not about me. They’ve already done all they can do to hurt me. I don’t want them to hurt anyone else.” Peter pauses. “I don’t want them to hurt you,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, but Quentin can see the shine of emotion in his eyes, knowing he means every word. Whatever his own eyes are conveying must be too overwhelming, because Peter lowers his gaze down to his hands.

Quentin admires Peter, because he’s so unlike him. He’s selfless, he’s _strong_ — and at the same time, he’s vulnerable, open, and susceptible to tears from a shitty romance movie alone. It’s not love that he feels for Peter, but it’s not just infatuation either. Something else, in-between and intangible— something that needs time to grow or wilt, depending on what it is.

Peter cares about him, even if Quentin’s emotionally stunted and abnormal. Even if he can’t put his feelings into words— even if he kills people during the day and comes home to sleep like a baby. Quentin cares about Peter too, enough that he’ll put himself in danger until the end of time just to pick off every single person who played a role in murdering Peter’s family.

“Don’t worry about me, kid,” he says. Offers a grin, even though Peter’s staring at his hands. “I can take care of myself just fine.”

Peter doesn’t say anything, but he does shoot Quentin a dirty look, eyes darting to his shoulder. And that’s not exactly fair. Sure, he may have gotten stabbed, but he handled it well enough, cleaned up the wound all on his own. He’s been doing everything by himself for the past ten years, anyway. That’s how it’ll always be. 

Quentin Beck, the one-man killing machine extraordinaire. It used to seem badass. Then it was boring. Now it just seems lonely. 

“Are you hungry?” he asks, in part because he wants to change the subject, and because he just remembered they were supposed to order something tonight.

“What?” Peter asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Are you hungry?” he repeats. The clock on the cable box reads 11:32— much later than they usually eat. Much later than they’re usually up, if he’s being honest. Peter likes to go to bed early. “The pizza place is probably closed by now, but there’s a White Castle nearby that stays open until three.”

Peter looks like he wants to say something, something unrelated to a late-night fast-food run. But his stomach growls— perfect timing— and he seems to let it go, at least for the moment. “You’re paying?”

“I always pay.” Quentin stands up, stretching his back with a groan. The last thing he needs is a bad spine from spending too much time squatting on the ground with a sixteen-year-old. Like getting stabbed wasn’t enough on his poor body. “Besides, I think you could use the fresh air. It’s not healthy for you to spend all this time in this tiny apartment.”

“So if I want to be healthier, I should go get a burger with you?”

“Exactly.”

-

The walk to the restaurant isn’t long, but by the time they manage to wrench the door open and stumble to the counter, they’re both stiff-limbed and panting from the cold. They must look at least a little ridiculous, what with Peter wearing one of Quentin’s winter jackets, completely swallowed by the abundance of wool, and Quentin still wearing his bathrobe under his neon green parka. Despite their appearance, the cashier seems unbothered, blinking slowly before asking for their orders.

Peter’s fingers are an alarming shade of white as he points at the menu, and Quentin makes a mental note to buy him some gloves the next time he goes out.

This should be a run-of-the-mill dinner for the two of them, even with the change of scenery. Sure, the last half-hour has been anything _but_ run-of-the-mill, what with the whole murder confession, but he thinks they can feign normalcy long enough to eat out. Quentin just wants to have a nice night out with his roommate.

But it’s never that easy with this kid, is it?

“I want to help you,” Peter says suddenly, once they’re tucked into a corner booth, his voice firm and unwavering as he brandishes a fry. “I could watch your back, keep you safe.” It’s the kind of tone that means he won’t change his mind, the same one he uses when he wants to order Thai instead of Chinese, no matter how much Quentin says he’s craving lo mein. The stubborn little bastard.

Still, he can’t cave this time. He won’t. This isn’t a debate over his takeout choice or movie preference— it’s real, it’s violent, and Peter could end up hurt, or worse. “No, absolutely not—“

“Come on,” Peter groans, immediately agitated. “You can’t do this alone. You said it yourself— they’re dangerous. They want you dead.”

“They are dangerous— that’s exactly why I don’t want you tagging along. And, newsflash, I’ve been doing this by myself for longer than you’ve been alive. I’ve never had any problems.”

Peter slams the heel of his shoe into Quentin’s shin under the table in an impressive display of violence that he honestly didn’t expect the kid to be capable of. “Oh yeah? Don’t you think getting stabbed counts as a problem? God, you stupid _jerk_ , you could’ve died!”

He flinches, more from the volume of the kid’s voice than the pain in his leg. The kid’s a lot stronger than he looks— something that Quentin needs to be reminded of constantly.

“But I didn’t,” he corrects, with a smug grin that he genuinely can’t help. “And besides, I handled it, didn’t I? Made it home in one piece.”

“Barely!” Peter tosses his fry aside, fixing Quentin with a steely, dead serious look that seems out of place for their debate about murder currently taking place in this White Castle. “If those people are out there still, _hurting_ people— then we have to do something. _I_ have to do something. Making sure you don’t die is just an added bonus.”

Quentin laughs, ignoring the dirty look Peter gives him and leaning back against the booth. “You don’t know the first thing about shooting guns, Peter. And, no offense, I don’t think you have the stomach for it anyway.”

“You don’t know that,” Peter says, puffing up his chest like an indignant child. “Besides, I’m a fast learner.”

This argument seems too pointless to keep pursuing. Given the way Peter’s clutching his soda cup in one tight fist, he’s only getting more upset. Quentin tugs his hand off of the poor plastic cup, setting it down on the table and running his thumb over the knuckles. Pulls away a second later, because yeah, that’s definitely still weird. “Look, Peter— there are always going to be evil people out there. People like me, who hurt other people for no reason. You do understand that, right?”

“You’re not evil,” Peter insists, quick enough that it seems like a knee-jerk reflex. Then he hesitates for a second. “Or at least, you don’t have to be.”

“I do, actually. Otherwise, I don’t get paid.” Quentin props his chin up on his hand. “Face it, kid, I’m about as evil as they get.”

“That’s not true.” Peter turns his gaze down into his lap, avoiding eye contact. “If you were evil, you wouldn’t have saved my life.”

“Well, one good deed doesn’t make me a good person.”

“Whatever,” Peter huffs, “you’re not evil. You know you’re not, you just don’t wanna admit it ‘cause it makes you sound less badass. _Good-guy Hitman Saves Teen From Being Murdered_ isn’t really good for the image you’ve got going on.”

“Oh yeah?” Quentin sips his coffee, smiling bemusedly at Peter over the edge of the cup. “What image do I have ‘going on’?”

Peter waves a flippant hand, gesturing vaguely. “You know, the whole, _I’m-so-dark-and-mysterious-look-at-me-with-my-dark-and-mysterious-turtleneck_. Man, I can’t believe I actually thought you were cool.”

Quentin wants to be offended, but he ends up more confused than anything. “Wait, when did you think I was _cool_?”

“Well, I mean— I would just see you around the building, wearing all black and stuff,” Peter stammers, cheeks flushing that annoyingly endearing shade of red. “And there was that one time—” he trails off, waving another dismissive hand— “never mind. It’s not a big deal.”

“You can’t just start telling a story and say ‘never mind,’ Peter. Come on, tell me.”

Peter bites at the skin on his lip, seemingly embarrassed by whatever story he’s remembering. Quentin’s tempted to tell him to knock it off before he makes himself bleed, but then the kid’s talking. “It was a long time ago, so I don’t even know if you remember it— and it’s fine if you don’t, honestly—”

“Peter.”

“Right,” he says, shaking his head. “So, the kids at school used to pick on me, you know? Just like, making fun of me for my torn up backpack, or how my uncle’s hand-me-downs didn’t fit right. Dumb crap like that. It sucked, like, a lot. But I didn’t want to tell my teachers or anything because I thought it would only get worse.”

Quentin listens, watching Peter remember something from their past that he’s completely forgotten. “Eventually, they started picking on me after school too. Tearing up my papers, tossing my books in the gutter, smacking me around. They’d follow me around just to harass me. So one day, I’m sprinting home, and right before I make it to the door, I run right into you.” Peter smiles to himself. “You didn’t have a beard back then.”

It’s coming back to him, slowly but surely. He remembers a skinny, curly-haired kid who had barreled right into him, almost knocking him over. Remembers the kids chasing after him. He scratches at his beard, feeling awkward. “I didn’t know that was you.”

“So you remember?”

Quentin shakes his head. “Not really— or, probably not as well as you do.”

“Well,” Peter continues. “I didn’t know what to do, so I just slipped behind you. And Flash started making fun of me, saying that I was a crybaby and a coward. I don’t even remember why they were following me— probably just to beat me up and humiliate me— but I remember I was so scared and so _mad_.”

Peter looks up, locking eyes with Quentin. “I thought you’d just unlock the door for me or something. But you didn’t.”

“If I were a normal person I would’ve. But I said something like ‘if I ever see you little shits in this neighborhood again, I’ll make you wish you were never born,’ didn’t I? Something cliché like that?”

Peter nods, grinning. “And I—” he laughs— “god, I remember the look on Flash’s face when you said that. You were like, two feet taller than him— he was scared shitless.” His smile turns fond. “I thought you were a superhero or something.”

Quentin raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, very heroic of me to threaten a middle schooler.”

“Well.” Peter shrugs. “He had it coming. Besides, it was worth it. They never followed me home again.”

“And it’s all thanks to me. You’re welcome.”

Peter kicks him under the table, and in a moment of weakness, Quentin kicks him right back. It’s so normal, so casual and familiar. Friendly.

God, they’re _friends_. How sad is that? He’s in his late thirties, and his only friend is a teenager.

Peter pelts him with a cold, rubbery french fry, giggling when he makes a noise of disgust. “Stop thinking so hard, man. Your coffee’s getting cold.”

Quentin frowns down at the cup. “I shouldn’t be drinking it anyway. It’s almost two in the morning.”

“We can leave if you want. I’m kind of tired.”

That’s fine with him— it’s been a long day. Quentin touches his aching shoulder with one hand. He’s had more excitement in the past ten hours than he has in the past month, which seems to be a common theme ever since he took Peter in. Some sleep would be good for both of them. “Okay. Let’s go home.”

“But I’m not letting it go,” Peter says lightly, gathering up his trash. “I still want to help you.”

Quentin doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. “I’ll sleep on it,” he sighs, but that’s a lie. He’s made up his mind. He works alone.

“So we’ll talk about it tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Quentin lies again. “Tomorrow.”

-

Normally, Quentin avoids staying up late. Whenever he’s up past two, he ends up sleeping in for double the amount of time lost. Blame it on old age or whatever— all he knows is that he never wakes up earlier than two after a night out.

Which is why he’s so confused when he wakes up and it’s still dark outside. The green numbers on his bedside clock blink at him, reading 6:19 AM in an almost accusatory fashion. Quentin groans into his pillow, before rolling over on his side and trying to slip back into sleep. He’d been in the middle of such a nice dream, suntanning somewhere warm and sunny, lounging on a veranda. Usually, he just dreams about murder, or nothing at all.

“Quentin?”

Quentin’s out of his bed in a heartbeat, slamming the stranger in his bedroom against the wall, forearm against his throat. Peter blinks at him, eyes wide even in the darkness of his room, looking startled but not frightened.

He quickly pulls his arm back, stepping away on shaky legs. “Jesus, Peter— don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Peter asks, rubbing his throat, apparently unbothered by being knocked into the wall.

“Sneak in here like that. I could’ve hurt you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Quentin blinks at him. Peter doesn’t know that. But he says it with so much certainty in his voice that it must be true.

“Why are you up so early?” he asks, changing the subject. “Why are you in my room?”

Peter shrugs. “You usually wake up early to work out, right? If I’m going to be like you, I should start working out too.”

Fucking hell, it’s too early for working out, let alone this. “Peter,” Quentin starts, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re not going to be like me. I don’t want you to be like me.”

“I want to help you,” Peter repeats, ignoring him. “You can’t just track down a group of criminals and take them down all by yourself.”

Quentin grabs Peter by the shoulders and steers him towards the door. The kid doesn’t fight it, but he doesn’t make it easy either— he’s heavier than he looks. “I can,” he says, grabbing the door handle once Peter’s out in the hallway. “And I will.”

He slams the door and locks it for good measure, before flopping back onto his bed with a loud thud. Hopefully, if he closes his eyes and counts sheep, he can get back to his dream. Maybe dream himself up a cocktail and a companion who doesn’t talk his ear off about being partners.

Who is he fucking kidding— there’s no way he’s getting back to sleep. 

He’s out of bed less than thirty minutes later, pushing past Peter who’s still waiting outside his door. 

“Changed your mind?” Peter asks, trailing after Quentin into the kitchen. “I won’t let it go, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Quentin groans, fiddling with his coffee machine and squinting as his eyes adjust to the light. “I know you won’t.”

And he doesn’t. Peter follows him around for most of the morning, always in a ten-foot radius and always chattering on and on about the benefits of working together. At this rate, he’s expecting the kid to pull out a pros and cons list a mile long— maybe even make a slideshow presentation. Overachiever things.

“— and there’s a ton of proof that crimes are best committed with a partner, I mean, just think about it. You’ve got people like Thelma and Louise—”

“That’s a movie,” Quentin interrupts flatly. “Movies aren’t real.”

“Still,” Peter continues, “it’s a good example of a partnership! Two people covering each other’s backs, dispensing justice on their own, all of that. We could be just like them!”

“If you want me to kiss you, you can just ask. It doesn’t have to be a whole _Thelma & Louise_ thing,” Quentin teases, shutting his manila file. “Because, reminder, they die at the end of the movie.”

Peter flushes, momentarily flustered by the mere mention of the word _kiss_. Then his eyes go wide. “They— wait, they _die_ at the end of the movie? Spoilers, man!”

Quentin gives Peter a funny look. “It came out in the nineties, it’s fair game. You’re the one who brought it up, anyway.”

“I thought it would help my argument,” Peter huffs. “Which reminds me, I haven’t even talked about Bonnie and Clyde—”

“Actually, hold that thought,” Quentin interrupts, snatching up his file. “I’ve got places to be.”

“Where?”

Quentin waves a flippant hand. “You know. Work.”

He doesn’t have anywhere to be, but he knows he can’t be in his apartment right now. If he spends one more second listening to Peter ramble on about being partners, he’s genuinely going to do something he’ll regret— like caving in and saying yes, or putting him up for adoption.

He’ll probably get a head start on his assignments, pick off one or two targets. It’ll give him some extra time to spend on his… freelance work. He still doesn’t know who wants him dead— that seems like it should take precedence right now.

“I’ll see you later,” he says over his shoulder, gathering up his briefcase and holstering his gun under his arm. 

Peter frowns, probably thinking of what his next talking point will be when Quentin comes back. “Yeah, see you.”

-

The first target doesn’t need to be taken out until next week, but Quentin’s going to go crazy with Peter harping on and on about being his partner, about teaching him— teaching him what? How to kill? As if it’s that easy.

He thought he could never get sick of the kid, but apparently, he thought wrong.

Quentin slips a hand under his coat, adjusting his gun holster, watching the other end of the hall for any movement. The file said that the guy works night shifts, so he should be in there, if his intel is right. Maybe he’ll even be sleeping, if Quentin’s lucky. Of course, there are no opportunities for banter, but it does make for a smooth kill.

The assignment is relatively easy, and as long as he doesn’t get too close, he shouldn’t end up with another knife sticking out of his shoulder. One or two shots to the chest would do the job, maybe. Plus, it’ll be good practice— it feels like it’s been ages since he last fired a gun, let alone shot something.

Right. He just has to focus, and he’ll be home free by noon. Free to go right back to his apartment and have Peter talk his ear off. 

He’s been eyeing a pair of noise-canceling headphones for a while now— maybe it’s time he snatches a pair.

Quentin slinks down the hall, stopping short of the apartment door. He presses his ear against the wood, and when he doesn’t hear anything, he pulls out his lock pick set from his briefcase. No one ever expects him to be carrying crazy shit inside it since it’s so bland and inconspicuous— makes it easy to go through building security. To most people, he looks like the average New York businessman. A startlingly handsome, average New York businessman.

He unlocks the door with a satisfying click, maybe in record time, but he doesn’t get the chance to relish his victory. 

“Okay, you’ve _definitely_ gotta teach me that.”

Quentin is in hell. He died after getting stabbed, and now this is his eternal punishment. Torture in the form of a five-foot-something teenage boy who doesn’t know when to quit. 

“Peter,” he growls, “what the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

Peter has the decency to look a little sheepish, shrugging his shoulders. Quentin glances around the hallway— no one’s seen them, hopefully. “Do you understand what my job is?” he asks in a hushed whisper. “Do you have any idea how dangerous this can be? Jesus, Peter—”

“You didn’t even tell me where you were going!” Peter snaps, immediately defensive. “If something happened to you— if you _died_ , I wouldn’t even know! That’s not fair!”

“Stop yelling.”

“I’m not yelling!” Peter pauses. “Maybe I am yelling! But you won’t listen to me—”

There’s a creak from inside the apartment, the sound of a floorboard, and Quentin’s blood goes cold. He presses back against the hallway wall, tugging Peter against his chest and slapping a hand on his mouth to shut him up. Peter squirms trying to break out of his grasp, until there’s a louder sound of a gun cocking, and he goes still, trying to sink back into Quentin.

“Stay out here,” he whispers into Peter’s ear, ignoring the way he shivers. “Don’t come inside. And for the love of god, be quiet.”

Quentin lets go of Peter, one hand unholstering his gun from under his coat. 

He manages to make it a few steps into the apartment— barely into the foyer— when the firing starts. The target turns the corner, a big, burly man, and Quentin doesn’t even have time to point his gun before the man comes barreling at him, knocking him to the ground and crushing him under his weight. His gun skids somewhere out of sight, definitely out of reach.

The man fumbles with his own gun, but Quentin manages to bat it out of his hands, thank god. Leveling the playing field.

“Get off of me,” Quentin grunts, drawing his fist back and landing a solid punch to the guy’s chin. There’s a satisfying crack, but he seems relatively unscathed. If anything, all he did was make him angry.

“You’re fucking _dead_.” The man wraps his hands around Quentin’s neck and squeezes, his grip tightening when he tries to struggle. God, he fucking hates strangling— especially if he’s the one being strangled. “I’m gonna wring your neck, pretty boy.”

“Hey!”

The man turns, but he doesn’t let go. Quentin’s starting to see spots, so he can barely make out Peter standing with a paperweight in one hand, brandishing it like a weapon. “Let him go!”

“Who the fuck are you?” the man snorts. “His sidekick?”

Peter’s got surprisingly good aim, flinging the paperweight and knocking the man upside the head. Quentin has no idea what kind of back-alley steroids this douchebag is on, but he barely even reacts, despite the blood dripping down his temple. He lets go of Quentin’s neck, standing up and making a snarling noise that sounds less like a human and more like an animal.

 _Holy fucking shit, this guy could snap Peter like a twig._ Quentin barely has any time to regain his breath before he’s scrambling to his feet, grabbing the man in a headlock and pulling him to the ground.

“Shit,” he gasps, pinned under the man’s weight, losing his breath for what feels like the millionth time today. His arm fucking _hurts_ and he can only hope he hasn’t popped the stitches.

Even though he had the upper-hand for a second, Quentin ends up under the man again, this time getting a solid punch to his cheekbone that whips his head to the side. If it’s fractured, he’d genuinely rather die here and now instead of having a swollen, horrible face while it heals.

The man lifts his head with his huge hands and slams it into the hardwood with enough force that Quentin’s teeth rattle. Being beaten to death wasn’t the way he thought he’d go, but hey. At least it’s not embarrassing, like slipping in the shower. Or dying while taking a shit.

Quentin’s desperately trying to ignore the searing pain in his head, lost in nonsensical thoughts about Elvis Presley, when another gunshot startles him back into the present. At first, he expects to feel his insides leaking out of a bullet hole. But given the way the man on top of him howls in pain, Quentin’s not the one who got shot.

Quentin knocks the man off, getting to his feet while he writhes in pain on the ground, his shoulder bleeding all over the polished wood. He stumbles over to where Peter’s standing, taking back his gun from the kid’s shaking hands. Quentin can’t see clearly through the spots, but he can tell that the kid’s eyes are wide. Shocked, probably.

“Hold on,” he slurs thickly, before stumbling over to the man on the ground. He empties the chamber, staggering backward with the force of the gun. 

Peter’s at his side in an instant, slipping under his arm and propping him up. “Oh my god, oh fuck— are you okay?”

“Flesh wound,” Quentin jokes, coughing into his shoulder. He hasn’t lost a tooth— unless he swallowed it— but there’s definitely blood in his mouth. And on his coat.

“I’m gonna get you out of here,” Peter says. He eyes the body on the carpet, his face going pale. “Are we— do we just leave him here?”

Quentin doesn’t have the verbal skills to explain the custom bullets, or the fact that he burned off his fingertips when he was fourteen and stupid. He pulls away from Peter, stumbling only a tiny bit as he picks up his briefcase. “Jus’ go,” he groans, waving his hand.

The two of them slip out of the apartment unnoticed. Apparently, the walls are soundproof. Either that or the neighbors are very firm believers in minding their own business.

-

The moment they shamble into the apartment, Quentin flings his briefcase onto the floor, gun and files scattering everywhere. He flops down onto the couch, clutching at his ribs. “M’too fucking old for this,” he groans.

Peter goes into the kitchen, bringing back some pills and an ice pack. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”

“Don’t have insurance.”

“You— dude, you’re an adult. Why don’t you have insurance?”

“Peter,” he groans. Takes the pills and dry swallows them, making a face. “Can you give me a break?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Peter sighs, pressing the ice pack against Quentin’s cheekbone. “I’m just worried.”

“Well, you’re the one who wanted to know what it’s like.” Quentin gestures dramatically to his bloodstained shirt. “We’ve killed a man in cold blood and it’s only noon.”

Peter grimaces. “I can’t believe I shot him.”

“I can’t believe it either.” He doesn’t know much about Peter’s past— about the bad things his uncle was involved in, or what happened to his real parents. Doesn’t care to know, if he’s being kind of honest. It wouldn’t change how he feels about Peter, so he never bothered to ask. Didn’t want to.

“I thought he was going to kill you.”

“Probably would have.”

Peter picks up the discarded gun from the floor, sitting down on the edge of the couch. His hands are shaking, which is going to be a problem if he wants to be a good shot like Quentin. Not that he should have steady hands. Not that those hands should ever be wrapped around a gun.

“You’re proving my point,” Peter sighs, turning over the weapon in his hands, looking down the barrel. The safety’s on and there aren’t any rounds in the chamber, but it’s still unnerving to see him pointing it at himself. “Without someone to watch your back, you could die.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. “But, I could die with someone watching my back too, you know. Having a partner— or an understudy, whatever the fuck you want to do— doesn’t mean I’d be invincible.”

“I want to… I don’t know. Watch out for you, I guess. Cover you. Help you find whoever it is that wants you dead.”

Quentin leans back against the pillows, sighing. “It’s not easy. Not like the movies.”

“I never thought it was,” Peter replies, head turned down to his lap, still fiddling with the gun. 

“Killing people— it’s not an easy thing to stomach,” Quentin continues, eyes still trained on Peter’s hands. Observing the way he trembles. “It’s something you can’t ever forget, or undo. It stays with you.” 

He’s generalizing. It stays with most people, just not people like him. Doesn’t stay with abnormal people.

Peter is undeterred. “I don’t want to kill anyone. I just want to make sure you don’t get hurt.” 

“You might not have a choice. If it’s between you and them.”

“If it’s between _you_ and them,” Peter repeats. Same words, different meaning. Something in his expression changes, his hands relaxing around the handle of the gun. 

Still, when Quentin starts inching his hands closer to Peter, he’s cautious. “I don’t want you to help me because I do things alone, kid. It’s easier that way— fewer liabilities, y’know?”

“You aren’t alone anymore, though,” Peter says softly, his hands relaxing around the handle of the gun. Slow, unconscious, like Quentin’s words alone are coaxing it out of his grip. “We have to watch out for each other.”

Quentin tugs the gun free from his grasp, eyes not leaving Peter’s face, searching for something but not knowing exactly what it is. “I’m trying to watch out for you. I don’t want to get you involved in all of this,” he tries, one last time.

“I’m already involved, man,” Peter retorts lightly. “My aunt and uncle were killed by hitmen. I _live_ with a hitman. That’s probably as involved as you can get.”

“Peter—”

“I lost my parents, I lost them— I can’t lose you too. I don’t think I could stand it.”

Quentin mentally says every single curse word he knows. It’s a bad idea, it’s the _worst_ idea. He should’ve never become a hitman— he’d have been better off writing his stupid screenplays and making shitty movies, sinking into obscurity, and never, ever having to take this kid under his wing. “I hate you,” he says, finally. “I hate you so much, Peter Parker.”

Peter seems surprised. “So you’ll teach me?”

“I’ll teach you _some_ stuff, not everything. And you’re not coming on assignments with me until I say so, and even then, you won’t get a real gun. I don’t want you getting trigger-happy and wiping out the block.”

“As if,” Peter says lightly, before offering him a wry smile. “Killing’s your area of expertise anyway. I don’t wanna steal your thunder.”

“Right.” Quentin nods slowly. “Fuck. Okay.”

If they’re going to do this, they’re going to do it right. And if he wants to do this right, he’s going to need some help, some guns. A place to shoot those guns, maybe. Quentin knows exactly who to call.

God, this is the worst day of his life.

As much as it pains him to do this— and it’s really, really fucking painful— he’s going to have to ask Tony for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "white castle is actually the only place where it’s legal to openly plot murder" - ursula
> 
> the way i wanted to title this chapter Quentin & Peter Go to White Castle… wilding.
> 
> the next installment…. quentin and tony bicker/banter like the grumpy old men they are... a vacation in the middle of nowhere.. peter shoots some things (hopefully not himself or quentin)..... and do i smell some….. ROMANCÉ? stay tuned
> 
> [on twitter](https://twitter.com/piagnucolares)


	5. tony the gun guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Listen— I don’t care if you and Iris Steensma over there are getting intimately acquainted with the word _statutory_ , as long as it doesn’t get in the way of work.”
> 
> Quentin recoils— scandalized, sure, but mostly annoyed that Tony’s making _Taxi Driver_ references of all things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first chapter since ch 1 that hasn’t had an ursulamerkle read-through..... might be kinda nutso without her guidance
> 
> it’s a pretty long chapter even though it’s not exactly eventful !!
> 
> anyway. tony time

Tony is a complete shithead about the Peter situation, unsurprisingly. Quentin doesn’t even know why he expected otherwise. Maybe he’s just an optimist at heart.

“You _dog_ ,” Tony whisper-shouts as soon as they enter his office, still leaning in close as if he actually cares about Peter hearing him. “You absolute _cradle-snatcher_. How old is that kid? Should I be calling Chris Hansen?”

“Shut up,” Quentin hisses under his breath, shoving Tony away. “Can you just shut the fuck up? Please?” His gaze darts over to Peter, who’s busy in the garage messing with some of Tony’s tools, completely oblivious to the two of them watching him through the glass windows of the office. 

“Okay, okay. Just a joke, no need to get your turtleneck in a twist,” Tony says, raising his hands in surrender but giving him a _look_. He sits down on the edge of his desk, crossing his arms over his chest with a smug grin that Quentin knows all too well— the type of grin that precedes some carefully crafted remark engineered to get on his nerves. “You’ve thought about it, though, haven’t you? Be honest.”

“No, I haven’t,” he lies, almost immediately. It’s reflex at this point. But if he were being honest? He’s thought about it. A lot. Obviously. _Unfortunately_. 

He glances over at Peter— wearing a t-shirt he nabbed from Quentin’s closet and showing a little too much collarbone because it’s obviously not the right fit. He’d tried to steal a pair of jeans too, but those were too loose, even with a belt pulled to the last notch and the denim rolled up past his ankles.

It’s not that Peter doesn’t have any clothes of his own— he has some things he’d brought over from his apartment before the cops sealed it up, and if he asked for more, Quentin would buy them for him, obviously. Still, for some reason, he goes out of his way to pilfer things from Quentin’s closet, be it old band t-shirts or never-opened Christmas socks. Nothing ever fits him quite right— since he’s just a slip of a thing and Quentin’s a fully grown man— but that doesn’t deter him in the least.

“Your clothes are more comfortable,” he explained with a shrug, an oversized button-up hanging loose on his slight shoulders. He paused, one hand tugging at a baggy sleeve, suddenly self-conscious. “Does it look bad?”

It wasn’t like Quentin was ever going to use those old bargain bin clothes. He’d developed a sense of style since he bought them, thank god. Still, the clothes looked better on Peter than they ever did on him. “No,” he said after a long silence. “But I don’t get why you can’t wear your own clothes instead of stinking up mine.”

Peter just smiled. “I think you’ve got better fashion sense than me.”

So, Quentin lets him wear his clothes. He always pretends to be annoyed, but he doesn’t actually mind. Seeing the kid in his clothes makes something unreasonably possessive well up inside him, a tugging in his gut that makes his hands twitch at his sides. And, in the least weird way possible— he kind of likes having his clothes smell like someone else, smell like Peter. His body wash, his shampoo, his sweat, everything.

No, it’s definitely weird, no matter how he phrases it. He’s so _weird_ when it comes to Peter. And that’s not even the worst word he could use to describe his attraction to his homeless, orphaned, sixteen-year-old roommate. Christ, maybe someone _should_ call Chris Hansen.

“I haven’t,” he repeats. Not sure who he’s trying to fool.

Tony gives him another one of those annoyingly smug grins. “See, the thing is— _I know you_.”

He does, unfortunately. Not as well as he thinks, but well enough. It’s one of the drawbacks of their relationship— nothing ever gets past Tony Stark, not when it comes to Quentin Beck. So, there’s no point in denying it. Tony’s not going to listen to him anyway. “Whatever.”

Peter looks up from the piece of tech he’d been examining on Tony’s workbench and offers them a little smile. It doesn’t seem like he’s heard anything, thank god. Quentin waves, watching the kid’s eyes get a little brighter before he goes back to messing with Tony’s stuff.

“Peter’s staying with me for a while,” he says, feeling oddly defensive. “That’s all. So drop it already.”

“Listen— I don’t care if you and Iris Steensma over there are getting intimately acquainted with the word _statutory_ , as long as it doesn’t get in the way of work.”

Quentin recoils— scandalized, sure, but mostly annoyed that Tony’s making _Taxi Driver_ references of all things. Of course, he’d like Scorsese. “That’s— I don’t— I’m going to ignore everything that just came out of your mouth.”

“Most people do.” Tony shrugs. “I don’t lose any sleep over it.” He sits down in his chair, kicking his feet up onto his desk. “So, your new side-piece aside— what can I do you for? Craving some action? Itching for a new gun?”

“Something like that.” Tony raises a curious eyebrow but doesn’t ask, so Quentin continues. “I need to borrow Mark V for the weekend.”

Tony’s quiet for a moment, before he breaks into a loud laugh, disbelieving. “Mark _V_? I didn’t think you were the sentimental type. What do you need it for, a trip down memory lane?”

Quentin doesn’t say anything, but he does look over at Peter. Tony follows his gaze, and then swings his feet off of his desk, lurching forward in his chair. “You’re _joking_.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Quentin groans, rolling his eyes.

“Then, please, go ahead, _enlighten me_ — I’m all ears.”

Quentin purses his lips. Opens his mouth, closes it. Settles for: “I was going to teach Peter how to shoot a gun.”

Tony doesn’t seem convinced. “That’s all? Just some bullet-based bonding between buds?”

“Among other things,” Quentin says slowly. “But, yeah. He should know how to defend himself.”

“Other things. Sure.” Tony looks back out the window, unimpressed. “Why do you care so much about this kid anyway? You’re not exactly the charitable type.”

“You remember how someone ordered a hit on me?” Quentin asks, after a moment of contemplation. Tony nods. “They got the wrong person. The wrong people.” He gestures to Peter. “And now he’s an orphan— for the second time, I think.”

“Jesus. Talk about unlucky.”

Understatement of the century. Peter loses his parents, loses his aunt and uncle, and then has to stay with someone like Quentin. A murderer, sure, but even worse— someone who doesn’t know how to keep his own feelings in line. He’d spent his whole life honing his indifference and now look at him.

“Look, Tony, it’s just a precaution.” He runs a hand through his gelled hair, pushing back the strands that have come unstuck. “If I die—”

Tony scoffs. “Please, you’re unkillable. You’re like a cockroach. A greasy, turtlenecked roach, doused in cologne and douchebaggery—”

“ _If_ I die, I don’t want him defenseless. In case those men come back for him.” He tenses his jaw, staring at nothing. “In case they get through me.”

There are very few serious moments between the two of them, most interactions boiling down to bickering or flat-out insults. But Tony can recognize when Quentin can take a joke and when he can’t. “Okay, okay,” he says, with an air of resignation. “You want Mark V, you’ve got it. And I’ve got people looking into the hit— we’ll find them before they find you.”

“Thanks, Tony.” Quentin almost considers giving him a grateful smile, but saying thank you is already too far out of his comfort zone.

“Let me go dig around for it,” Tony says, getting onto his feet with a groan. “It’s probably somewhere in the garage.”

As soon as they step out of the office, Peter comes bouncing up to Quentin’s side. “This stuff is crazy,” he whispers giddily, as if the comment would do anything other than inflate Tony’s ego. “Your gun guy is a genius.”

“I’m more like his pimp,” Tony calls from behind some boxes. “So be careful with this thing. Don’t get too trigger happy. Beck’s my bottom bitch and this whole enterprise will be fucked if he goes down.”

“ _Pimp_?” Peter laughs incredulously. “Is that what they call it?”

“Don’t listen to him, Peter,” Quentin says, rolling his eyes. “He’s not as smart as he seems.”

“Maybe not,” he says with a grin. “But he’s definitely funny.”

Tony waves a hand, stumbling around some discarded car parts. Hamming it up. Quentin rolls his eyes. “Thank you, Steensma! I’ll be here all week.”

Peter giggles, but Quentin’s mouth curls in disgust. “Don’t call him that.”

“Who’s Steensma again?” the kid asks, directing his question to Quentin. “Like, the purple lady from the llama movie?” 

At first, Quentin thinks he’s joking, but one glance at Peter’s slightly lost expression tells him that the jab really did go over his head. Didn’t get the reference. _Taxi Driver_ probably counts as an old movie by his standards.

Before Quentin can have another miniature crisis about their horrendous age difference, Tony shoots up, clutching a box of ammo and a rifle case. “Found it!”

Peter takes the case without hesitation, fingers carefully running over black plastic. Fascinated by the metal clasps holding it shut, as if the inside isn’t infinitely more interesting than the outside. He turns to Quentin, eyes wide and eager and shining. “Can I open it?”

“Go ahead.”

The three of them crowd around the table. Peter takes his time popping open the clasps, and when he finally does, he gasps. Quentin can’t remember how he felt when Tony gave him Mark V, but he definitely wasn’t as awed as Peter. “It’s awesome.”

While Peter’s looking through the scope piece, Quentin turns back to Tony. “There’s another thing. We need someplace to practice— preferably far away from other people.”

Tony grins. “So, what, you wanna borrow my lake house so you can rock out with your glock out?”

“Uh. Sure.” Does every other word out of his mouth have to be a reference, pun, or just genuinely stupid? Quentin’s asking him for favors, sure, but god, he can only take so much. “He needs a change of scenery.”

Peter tunes into their conversation, frowning. “You need a change of scenery.”

“Fine, _we_ need a change of scenery.”

“Right.” Peter nods. “Before we start working.”

Shit. He hasn’t told Tony yet. Quentin watches his expression curdle, the lines by his mouth deepening. His eyes narrow. “What’d he say?”

“Nothing?” Peter offers lamely. At least he has the decency to look sheepish.

Quentin raises a placating hand. “I just thought I could take him on a hit or two. For practice.”

“Take him on a hit?” Tony asks, incredulous, his voice edging into shouting volume. “ _Quentin_ , he’s a _kid_. Kids are supposed to be in school, giving each other wedgies, pushing each other into lockers, that sort of thing. Not killing people for money!”

Quentin sucks his teeth before sneering. He’s aware of Peter in his periphery, but the kid seems to be awkwardly messing with the other pieces of the rifle, which is fine. This is probably going to get ugly anyway. “Kids shouldn’t kill people for money, huh? That’s rich, coming from you.” He pauses. “I was a kid too, but you never had any problems with that.”

For a moment, Tony’s anger splinters into something Quentin doesn’t recognize, something almost vulnerable. If he were more naïve, he’d say it was guilt. But then his expression hardens again, like he’d never cracked in the first place. “Peter’s not like you, though— is he?”

“No one’s like me,” he says, bitterly, “and you should know that better than anyone.” 

It’s not even meant to be a brag, though he’d usually leap at the opportunity to remind Tony that he’s his best hitman. He had the most kills out of all of them last time Tony counted— much to Hammer’s disappointment. Some people just aren’t cut out for murder.

Tony shakes his head. “Look at him! He’s like, twelve!”

With that, Peter finally speaks again. “Uh, all due respect, Mr. Tony—”

“Stark.”

“Right, sorry— Mr. Tony Stark, sir, I’m sixteen. I’m not a kid.”

Somehow, Tony is completely immune to Peter’s weepy puppy eyes, turning instead to face Quentin with an acrid grin. “See, I’m pretty sure New York law says seventeen, but—”

Quentin slams the rifle case shut, rattling the table. “Are you going to help us or not? I don’t want to do this on my own, but I will if I have to.”

Tony blinks at him. Maybe Quentin’s asked for too much. Maybe this was a bad idea after all. If _Tony_ thinks it’s a bad idea, then he must really be fucked. 

“I’m going to regret this,” Tony sighs, fishing in his work pants until he pulls out a set of keys. “But then again— when have I ever said no to you, babycakes?”

Peter drops the scope back into the case with a surprisingly loud thud, startling the both of them. “Sorry,” he says, managing to sound sheepish and completely unapologetic at the same time. “Kinda big for my twelve-year-old hands.”

Tony chuckles, before turning back to Quentin. “You know what— I kinda like him, Beck,” he says, putting an elbow on his shoulder and dropping the keys into his hand. “He’ll make a good man out of you yet.”

The implications are obvious. Peter flushes, looking away from Tony— meanwhile, Quentin can’t look away from him. He’s so… sweet. Tooth-rotting, disgustingly sweet. All clumsy limbs and fond eyes. It’d be sickening on anyone else, but Quentin can’t get enough. Peter turns his gaze back, a little smile curving his lips despite how embarrassed he still looks. “Nah, he’s already a good man.”

Peter— standing a measly five-foot-something, looking even smaller in Quentin’s shirt with one collarbone out, curls framing his ridiculously pink cheeks— somehow manages to be the most captivating person he’s ever seen. He’d give anything to keep him, take care of him, make him _his_. 

Quentin would give anything, but it’d cost Peter everything, in the end. As selfish as he is, he can’t ask that of him.

Peter smiles wider and Quentin smiles back, weakly. Even if he can’t touch, he can still admire.

—

Tony’s car reeks of expensive cologne, and by the time they finally pull onto the side road that leads up to the lake house, Quentin’s got a serious migraine. Maybe some sinus damage. Peter didn’t seem to mind it, fiddling with the radio and chattering on about some TV show like they’re not huffing the toxic fumes of Stark’s stench. Actually, if he did have a problem with it, Quentin doubts he’d complain.

As soon as they park the car, Quentin kicks the door open, closing his eyes and inhaling the cold, forest air. He loves being up here. It’s such a change of pace from the city. “I can fucking breathe again,” he groans. Peter giggles, and Quentin cracks one eye open. “What are you laughing at?”

“Nothing,” he says, and Quentin can hear his smile. “You’re just really dramatic, man.”

“I’m a thespian at heart.” Quentin gets out of the car, leaning down to shoot Peter a wink before he closes his door. 

He grabs most of their things from the trunk, save for a shopping bag that he hands off to Peter. Quentin tries his best to be nonchalant about it, watching Peter examine the writing on the side of the bag as they head towards the house. “Get yourself something nice?” he asks as Quentin sets the bags down on the porch.

“Not for me.” Quentin pats his pockets, looking for the keys. Peter gives him a questioning look. “It’s for you, dumbass.”

“Me?” Peter seems flustered, his fingers tightening around the handle. 

Quentin doesn’t want him to misconstrue this whole thing. It’s not like the gift is a surprise or anything. It’s barely a gift, really. “Don’t get excited. They’re just gloves. I saw you didn’t have any, so I bought you— I bought some gloves.”

Peter gives him a funny look, and for a moment Quentin wishes he didn’t bring them up at all, let alone buy them. But then the kid smiles, carefully taking the gloves out of the bag and tugging them on. He splays his fingers, seemingly entranced by something so simple. “Thank you, they’re really nice.”

Quentin scoffs, turning to unlock the door and hide how warm his face has become. “They better be, for a hundred and fifty dollars.”

Peter stops admiring his gloves instantly. “No!” He reaches up to smack Quentin in the chest, his face comically shocked. Peter’s strength still takes him by surprise, but the glove dampens the worst of the blow. “You didn’t!”

“Oh, but I did,” he teases, grinning as he carries their bags into the foyer, Peter trailing behind and looking like a disgruntled kitten, still donning his puffy gloves. As soon as they step into the living room, though, his expression morphs into awe.

In theory, Quentin knows Tony is rich. He has to be, given all the clients he has— hitmen don’t come cheap. But there’s nothing quite like visiting his lake house to remind him just how rich he really is.

Floor to ceiling windows looking out onto the frozen lake, a fireplace almost as tall as Peter, and a couch that could probably seat a football team— among other things. Quentin groans, about to complain about the ostentatiousness of it all.

“Oh my god!” Peter rushes past him, flopping onto the couch with a happy squeal, rolling in the expensive-looking fur blankets with childish glee. He tumbles onto the floor with a soft thud, lifting his head in a mess of brown curls. “Your pimp is loaded, dude!”

“He’s not my pimp,” Quentin snaps, dropping their bags on the floor. “He’s a pain in my ass.”

There’s a strange expression on Peter’s face. Almost judging, if he had the capacity to be judging. “How do you two know each other, anyway?”

It’s a long story, so Quentin rounds the couch and slumps onto the cushion. Kicks up his feet onto the ottoman, even though he’s wearing shoes. Maybe _because_ he’s wearing shoes. It’s fine. Tony can get it cleaned. Or just buy a new one, even. Peter scrambles up onto the cushion beside him, unnecessarily close. At home, his couch is barely big enough for two people, so Peter sitting half in his lap isn’t exactly surprising. Here, though, there’s enough room for them to be at least a little farther apart.

Still, he’s not going to complain. Not when Peter seems so interested in hearing about his history with Tony, leaning forward with a sharp look in his eyes. Quentin clears his throat. “Well, I actually had him as a foster dad for a bit.”

Peter’s eyes widen. “You— you hooked up with your _foster dad_?” he asks, voice quiet like someone’s listening. Like he’s completely scandalized.

Quentin can’t help it— he laughs so hard that Peter startles backward, the earnest expression on his sweet face morphing into confusion. Quentin shakes his head. “Why— what? When did I say we hooked up?”

Peter has the decency to look embarrassed. “I just assumed,” he says, sheepish. “I mean, he said that whole thing like, _anything for you babycakes_ , and it just— it just sounded like you two were close. I dunno.”

“Close because he was my dad for like, a week.” Then it hits him. Quentin’s mouth curls into a grin. Peter’s _envious_. He pulls the kid into his side, squeezing him close. “Don’t worry, Pete— I’m not gonna leave you for my old foster dad.”

Peter blushes again, but he seems pleased. “I didn’t mean it like that. You can do whatever you want, man.”

“I can do whatever I want, as long as it isn’t Tony,” he clarifies. Peter makes an annoyed sound, squirming out of his hold. “But yeah, he was my foster dad for a while. God knows why anyone would let him watch over kids, though.”

“Was he mean?”

Quentin frowns. “Not mean, but, come on— look at me. I’m a murderer because of him.”

“I guess so.” Peter flops back onto the couch, kicking his feet up across Quentin’s thighs. He clasps his hands over his stomach, staring at the ceiling. “Is it bad if I don’t want to shoot anything? I mean— is it bad if I don’t want to shoot anything right now?”

“Nah.” What a _Peter_ question to ask. “What do you want to do, then?”

“Nothing crazy.” Peter angles his head towards him, smiling. “I just wanna spend time with you.”

Jesus, would it kill him to be insincere every once and a while? Or mean, even? Because at this rate, Quentin’s going to end up making the biggest mistake of his life, just to see those wispy brows draw together in sweet, genuine shock. He wonders what Peter would do if Quentin told him how he felt. Maybe he should skip the childish confession and go straight for the kiss.

“We should practice shooting, though,” Peter says awkwardly when Quentin’s silent for too long. “That’s why we came up here, anyway.”

“No, no,” Quentin says hurriedly, sitting up straight and wrapping a hand around one of Peter’s slim ankles, like it’ll stop his train of thought. “We’re here for a change of scenery, right? Might as well enjoy the scenery.”

Peter grins again. “Is there anything to do up here?”

Quentin thinks. Avoids the inappropriate thoughts as best he can. “I used to go for walks along the lake, but it’s not exactly good weather for that.”

“Who says?” Peter gently tugs his ankle free, before standing up. Offers his hand with a sweet smile. “Any weather is good weather for walking.”

Quentin disagrees, but he takes Peter’s hand anyway.

—

Just as he’d expected— it’s fucking _cold_ out. 

The air smells like winter— like icy pine and wilderness— but god, it’s not worth trudging through wet, ankle-deep snow. It’s hard enough to navigate the trees in the daytime, but in the night, it’s almost guaranteed that he'll trip and fall to his icy death. Quentin tugs his parka closer to his chest, huffing out a steamy breath. 

“Come on,” Peter calls from a few feet ahead. Skipping along like this is a walk in the park, the nimble little asshole. “I need some company over here. I’m scared of the dark.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m— I’m fucking cold.”

Peter’s in front of him in an instant, like this is a life or death situation. Never mind the fact that they’re only a three-minute walk from the cabin. “You should’ve said something!” He looks down at Quentin’s bare hands and frowns. “Here, take your gloves—”

“Your gloves,” Quentin corrects, pushing Peter’s hands away and trying to stop his teeth from audibly chattering. “Besides, I’m a big boy. I can handle it.” His numb, purple fingers say otherwise, but whatever.

Peter seems to think for a moment, before taking Quentin’s hands in his own. “It’s not as warm as wearing them, I know, but. Maybe it’ll help?”

Quentin groans, clasping Peter’s hands through the thick material. “You’re so… ugh.”

“So what?”

“Nice,” Quentin says, almost immediately. “You’re nice. You can’t be a nice hitman. You can’t even be a nice person in this kind of world.”

Peter pulls him along slowly, carefully walking backward, towards the dock by the lake. “What do you mean? You’re nice.”

There’s a patch of icy ground, and Peter stumbles slightly. Thankfully, Quentin manages to steady him before they both go tumbling into the snow. “I’m not nice. I’m probably the most dangerous person you’ve ever met.”

“You can be nice and dangerous. They’re not mutually exclusive.”

They come to a stop by the edge of the lake. Peter’s cheeks are dusted pink from the cold, his nose almost candy red, and Quentin wonders how easy it is for young people to catch colds. Peter lets go of his hands to walk down the ramp and onto the dock, arms straight out like he’s performing a balancing act.

“Be careful,” Quentin says, trudging down after him. “Just because the lake’s not totally frozen, doesn’t mean it’s not cold.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll be careful.”

It’s nicer out on the water, quieter almost. More serene. 

Nighttime is rarely silent in the city. Never silent, when Quentin thinks about it. Up here, though, it’s almost always quiet. Especially with the snow and the cold. It feels like they’re well and truly alone, for once. No looming threat of murder— of vengeful gangsters or angry landlords. It’s just them.

Quentin might like it if it were always like this. A life where a walk in the woods is as crazy as things get. Something uneventful— and wasn’t that what he was running away from only a month ago? The boring? The routine?

It wouldn’t be like that if Peter were with him.

Quentin looks up at the sky, eyes watering from the biting breeze. It’s cloudy, but some stars manage to cut through the hazy dark, shining bright in spite of all the empty— because of all the empty. If he weren’t so cold, maybe he’d lie down on the wood of the dock and let it rock him into a doze. It’s fine, though. He’ll just have to settle for a fireside nap with Peter.

Speaking of Peter. The kid leans over the edge of the dock— precariously close— watching the dark water shift with the cold breeze, the chunks of ice bobbing around and pinging off of one another.

“Be careful,” he repeats as the dock sways slightly. “I don’t feel like diving in after you if you fall.”

Peter twirls around to face him, a smile spreading across his flushed face. He sways a little bit with the dock, and then some. “You don’t feel like it, but would you? Dive in after me, I mean?”

Quentin instinctively steps closer. There’s a strange feeling in his chest, like Peter might actually fall in if he says yes. Like he’ll jump in right after him on reflex alone. Still, there’s no way Peter’s reckless enough to put his life at risk like that. And honestly, what a way to go— hypothermia and drowning, when just the other day he could’ve eaten lead or gotten his pretty face punched in.

Peter’s waiting for an answer, rocking back on his heels, dangerously close to the water. There’s nothing visibly taunting about him, except his eyes— brown turned shining black in the dark, just as enticing as the frozen water below them.

“Yes,” Quentin says plainly. “Yes, I would.”

Peter looks at him, _really_ looks at him, with some deep, indescribable fondness. It chills Quentin more than the breeze, more than the prospect of falling into the lake.

The dock rocks back and forth with soft, rhythmic creaks. “Okay,” Peter says, just as plainly. He takes a step away from the edge, whatever illusion he’d been projecting breaking with the movement. “Okay.”

Peter grins.

And Quentin grins right back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally i was going to have some nsfw stuff AND have peter fucking trip into the lake. could u imagine. u would’ve liked it wouldnt u. u sicko.
> 
> anyway thanks for reading !!! sorry i take forever ! and thanks for ur kudos and ur comments ! they’re so sweet <3
> 
> [my twitter](http://twitter.com/piagnucolares)


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